UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


t, 


MARJORIE  DAW  AND  OTHER 
STORIES 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

flfte  fltoetsi&c  prejtf  Cambribge 


COPYRIGHT,  1873,  I88S,   JS93,  '897,  AND  1901,  BY  THOMAS  3A1LEY  ALDRICH 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


U  v. 

\J 

fi 

«*  CONTENTS 


PACK 

"MARJORIE  DAW i 

VMISS   MEHETABEL'S  SON 45 

AX  MIDNIGHT   FANTASY 82 

VMADEMOISELLE  OLYMPE  ZABRISKI    .      .      .     n6 

STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE 139 

ITE   SO 158 

O  BITES  AT  A   CHERRY 181 

LIATH       .        .       ....        .        .        .        .       .        .      226 

O    THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER    .        .        .        .244 

-    HER   DYING   WORDS 272 

^N^PERE  ANTOINE'S  DATE-PALM 294 

W 

^        The  frontispiece  is  from  a  recent  photograph  of  Mr.  Aldrich  taken 
by  G.  C.  Cox,  of  New  York. 


2G9538 


MARJORIE  DAW 


DR.    DILLON  TO   EDWARD   DELANEY,    ESQ.,   AT  THE 
PINES,    NEAR  RYE,    N.  H. 

August  8,  1872 

MY  DEAR  SIR  :  I  am  happy  to  assure  you 
that  your  anxiety  is  without  reason.  Flemming 
will  be  confined  to  the  sofa  for  three  or  four 
weeks,  and  will  have  to  be  careful  at  first  how 
he  uses  his  leg.  A  fracture  of  this  kind  is 
always  a  tedious  affair.  Fortunately  the  bone 
was  very  skilfully  set  by  the  surgeon  who 
chanced  to  be  hi  the  drug-store  where  Flem- 
ming was  brought  after  his  fall,  and  I  appre- 
hend no  permanent  inconvenience  from  the 
accident.  Flemming  is  doing  perfectly  well 
physically  ;  but  I  must  confess  that  the  irritable 
and  morbid  state  of  mind  into  which  he  has 
fallen  causes  me  a  great  deal  of  uneasiness.  He 
is  the  last  man  in  the  world  who  ought  to  break 
his  leg.  You  know  how  impetuous  our  friend 


2  MARJORIE  DAW 

is  ordinarily,  what  a  soul  of  restlessness  and 
energy,  never  content  unless  he  is  rushing  at 
some  object,  like  a  sportive  bull  at  a  red  shawl ; 
but  amiable  withal  He  is  no  longer  amiable. 
His  temper  has  become  something  frightful. 
Miss  Fanny  Flemming  came  up  from  Newport, 
where  the  family  are  staying  for  the  summer, 
to  nurse  him  ;  but  he  packed  her  off  the  next 
morning  in  tears.  He  has  a  complete  set  of 
Balzac's  works,  twenty-seven  volumes,  piled  up 
near  his  sofa,  one  of  which  he  threatens  to 
throw  at  Watkins  whenever  that  exemplary 
serving-man  appears  with  his  meals.  Yester- 
day I  very  innocently  brought  Flemming  a 
small  basket  of  lemons.  You  know  it  was  a 
strip  of  lemon-peel  on  the  curbstone  that  caused 
our  friend's  mischance.  Well,  he  no  sooner 
set  his  eyes  upon  those  lemons  than  he  fell  into 
such  a  rage  as  I  cannot  adequately  describe. 
This  is  only  one  of  his  moods,  and  the  least 
distressing.  At  other  times  he  sits  with  bowed 
head  regarding  his  splintered  limb,  silent,  sul- 
len, despairing.  When  this  fit  is  on  him  —  and 
it  sometimes  lasts  all  day  —  nothing  can  dis- 
tract his  melancholy.  He  refuses  to  eat,  does 
not  even  read  the  newspapers  ;  books,  except 
as  projectiles  for  Watkins,  have  no  charms  for 
him.  His  state  is  truly  pitiable. 

Now,  if  he  were  a  poor  man,  with  a  family 


MARJORIE   DAW  3 

depending  on  his  daily  labor,  this  irritability 
and  despondency  would  be  natural  enough. 
But  in  a  young  fellow  of  twenty-four,  with 
plenty  of  money  and  seemingly  not  a  care  in 
the  world,  the  thing  is  monstrous.  If  he  con- 
tinues to  give  way  to  his  vagaries  in  this  man- 
ner, he  will  end  by  bringing  on  an  inflamma- 
tion of  the  fibula.  It  was  the  fibula  he  broke. 
I  am  at  my  wits'  end  to  know  what  to  prescribe 
for  him.  I  have  anaesthetics  and  lotions,  to 
make  people  sleep  and  to  soothe  pain ;  but  I  've 
no  medicine  that  will  make  a  man  have  a  little 
common  sense.  That  is  beyond  my  skill,  but 
may  be  it  is  not  beyond  yours.  You  are  Flem- 
ming's  intimate  friend,  his  fidus  Achates.  Write 
to  him,  write  to  him  frequently,  distract  his 
mind,  cheer  him  up,  and  prevent  him  from  be- 
coming a  confirmed  case  of  melancholia.  Per- 
haps he  has  some  important  plans  disarranged 
by  his  present  confinement.  If  he  has  you  will 
know,  and  will  know  how  to  advise  him  judi- 
ciously. I  trust  your  father  finds  the  change 
beneficial  ?  I  am,  my  dear  sir,  with  great  re- 
spect, etc. 


II 

EDWARD  DELANEY   TO  JOHN   FLEMMING,   WEST  38TH 
STREET,  NEW  YORK 

August  9,  1872 

MY  DEAR  JACK  :  I  had  a  line  from  Dillon 
this  morning,  and  was  rejoiced  to  learn  that 
your  hurt  is  not  so  bad  as  reported.  Like  a 
certain  personage,  you  are  not  so  black  and 
blue  as  you  are  painted.  Dillon  will  put  you 
on  your  pins  again  in  two  or  three  weeks,  if 
you  will  only  have  patience  and  follow  his  coun- 
sels. Did  you  get  my  note  of  last  Wednes- 
day ?  I  was  greatly  troubled  when  I  heard 
of  the  accident. 

I  can  imagine  how  tranquil  and  saintly  you 
are  with  your  leg  in  a  trough!  It  is  deuced 
awkward,  to  be  sure,  just  as  we  had  promised 
ourselves  a  glorious  month  together  at  the  sea- 
side ;  but  we  must  make  the  best  of  it.  It  is 
unfortunate,  too,  that  my  father's  health  ren- 
ders it  impossible  for  me  to  leave  him.  I  think 
he  has  much  improved  ;  the  sea  air  is  his  native 
element ;  but  he  still  needs  my  arm  to  lean 


MARJORIE  DAW  5 

upon  in  his  walks,  and  requires  some  one  more 
careful  than  a  servant  to  look  after  him.  I  can- 
not come  to  you,  dear  Jack,  but  I  have  hours  of 
unemployed  time  on  hand,  and  I  will  write  you 
a  whole  post-office  full  of  letters,  if  that  will 
divert  you.  Heaven  knows,  I  have  n't  anything 
to  write  about.  It  is  n't  as  if  we  were  living  at 
one  of  the  beach  houses  ;  then  I  could  do  you 
some  character  studies,  and  fill  your  imagina- 
tion with  groups  of  sea-goddesses,  with  their 
(or  somebody  else's)  raven  and  blonde  manes 
hanging  down  their  shoulders.  You  should 
have  Aphrodite  in  morning  wrapper,  in  even- 
ing costume,  and  in  her  prettiest  bathing  suit. 
But  we  are  far  from  all  that  here.  We  have 
rooms  in  a  farm-house,  on  a  cross-road,  two 
miles  from  the  hotels,  and  lead  the  quietest  of 
lives. 

I  wish  I  were  a  novelist.  This  old  house, 
with  its  sanded  floors  and  high  wainscots,  and 
its  narrow  windows  looking  out  upon  a  cluster 
of  pines  that  turn  themselves  into  aeolian  harps 
every  time  the  wind  blows,  would  be  the  place 
in  which  to  write  a  summer  romance.  It  should 
be  a  story  with  the  odors  of  the  forest  and  the 
breath  of  the  sea  in  it.  It  should  be  a  novel 
like  one  of  that  Russian  fellow's — what's  his 
name  ?  —  Tourguenieff,  Turguenef,  Turgenif, 
Toorguniff,  Turg^njew  —  nobody  knows  how 


6  MARJORIE   DAW 

to  spell  him.  Yet  I  wonder  if  even  a  Liza  or 
an  Alexandra  Paulovna  could  stir  the  heart  of 
a  man  who  has  constant  twinges  in  his  leg.  I 
wonder  if  one  of  our  own  Yankee  girls  of  the 
best  type,  haughty  and  spirituelle,  would  be  of 
any  comfort  to  you  in  your  present  deplorable 
condition.  If  I  thought  so,  I  would  hasten 
down  to  the  Surf  House  and  catch  one  for  you  ; 
or,  better  still,  I  would  find  you  one  over  the 
way. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  large  white  house  just 
across  the  road,  nearly  opposite  our  cottage. 
It  is  not  a  house,  but  a  mansion,  built,  perhaps, 
in  the  colonial  period,  with  rambling  extensions, 
and  gambrel  roof,  and  a  wide  piazza  on  three 
sides  —  a  self-possessed,  high-bred  piece  of 
architecture,  with  its  nose  in  the  air.  It  stands 
back  from  the  road,  and  has  an  obsequious  reti- 
nue of  fringed  elms  and  oaks  and  weeping  wil- 
lows. Sometimes  in  the  morning,  and  oftener 
in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  has  withdrawn 
from  that  part  of  the  mansion,  a  young  woman 
appears  on  the  piazza  with  some  mysterious 
Penelope  web  of  embroidery  in  her  hand,  or  a 
book.  There  is  a  hammock  over  there  —  of 
pineapple  fibre,  it  looks  from  here.  A  ham- 
mock is  very  becoming  when  one  is  eighteen, 
and  has  golden  hair,  and  dark  eyes,  and  an 
emerald-colored  illusion  dress  looped  up  after 


MARJORIE  DAW  7 

the  fashion  of  a  Dresden  china  shepherdess, 
and  is  chauss/e  like  a  belle  of  the  time  of  Louis; 
Quatorze.  All  this  splendor  goes  into  that 
hammock,  and  sways  there  like  a  pond-lily  in 
the  golden  afternoon.  The  window  of  my  bed- 
room looks  down  on  that  piazza.  —  and  so  do  I. 
But  enough  of  this  nonsense,  which  ill  be- 
comes a  sedate  young  attorney  taking  his 
vacation  with  an  invalid  father.  Drop  me  a 
line,  dear  Jack,  and  tell  me  how  you  really 
are.  State  your  case.  Write  me  a  long,  quiet 
letter.  If  you  are  violent  or  abusive,  I  '11  take 
the  law  to  you. 


Ill 


JOHN   FLEMMING  TO   EDWARD   DELANEY 

August  n,  1872 

YOUR  letter,  dear  Ned,  was  a  godsend. 
Fancy  what  a  fix  I  am  in  —  I,  who  never  had  a 
day's  sickness  since  I  was  born.  My  left  leg 
weighs  three  tons.  It  is  embalmed  in  spices 
and  smothered  in  layers  of  fine  linen,  like  a 
mummy.  I  can't  move.  I  have  n't  moved  for 
five  thousand  years.  I  'm  of  the  time  of  Pha- 
raoh. 

I  lie  from  morning  till  night  on  a  lounge, 
staring  into  the  hot  street.  Everybody  is  out  of 
town  enjoying  himself.  The  brown-stone-front 
houses  across  the  street  resemble  a  row  of  par- 
ticularly ugly  coffins  set  up  on  end.  A  green 
mould  is  settling  on  the  names  of  the  deceased, 
carved  on  the  silver  door-plates.  Sardonic 
spiders  have  sewed  up  the  key-holes.  All  is 
silence  and  dust  and  desolation.  —  I  interrupt 
this  a  moment,  to  take  a  shy  at  Watkins  with 
the  second  volume  of  Cesar  Birotteau.  Missed 
him  !  I  think  I  could  bring  him  down  with  a 


MARJORIE   DAW  9 

copy  of  Sainte-Beuve  or  the  Dictionnaire  Uni- 
versal, if  I  had  it.  These  small  Balzac  books 
somehow  do  not  quite  fit  my  hand ;  but  I  shall 
fetch  him  yet.  I  've  an  idea  that  Watkins  is 
tapping  the  old  gentleman's  Chateau  Yquem. 
Duplicate  key  of  the  wine-cellar.  Hibernian 
swarries  in  the  front  basement  Young  Cheops 
up -stairs,  snug  in  his  cerements.  Watkins 
glides  into  my  chamber,  with  that  colorless, 
hypocritical  face  of  his  drawn  out  long  like  an 
accordion ;  but  I  know  he  grins  all  the  way 
down-stairs,  and  is  glad  I  have  broken  my  leg. 
Was  not  my  evil  star  in  the  very  zenith  when 
I  ran  up  to  town  to  attend  that  dinner  at  Del- 
monico's  ?  I  did  n't  come  up  altogether  for 
that.  It  was  partly  to  buy  Frank  Livingstone's 
roan  mare  Margot.  And  now  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  sit  in  the  saddle  these  two  months.  I  '11 
send  the  mare  down  to  you  at  The  Pines  —  is 
that  the  name  of  the  place  ? 

Old  Dillon  fancies  that  I  have  something  on 
my  mind.  He  drives  me  wild  with  lemons. 
Lemons  for  a  mind  diseased!  Nonsense.  I 
am  only  as  restless  as  the  devil  under  this  con- 
finement —  a  thing  I  'm  not  used  to.  Take  a 
man  who  has  never  had  so  much  as  a  headache 
or  a  toothache  in  his  life,  strap  one  of  his  legs  in 
a  section  of  water-spout,  keep  him  in  a  room  in 
the  city  for  weeks,  with  the  hot  weather  turned 


io  MAKJORIE   DAW 

on,  and  then  expect  him  to  smile  and  purr 
and  be  happy !  It  is  preposterous.  I  can't  be 
cheerful  or  calm. 

Your  letter  is  the  first  consoling  thing  I  have 
had  since  my  disaster,  ten  days  ago.  It  really 
cheered  me  up  for  half  an  hour.  Send  me  a 
screed,  Ned,  as  often  as  you  can,  if  you  love 
me.  Anything  will  do.  Write  me  more  about 
that  little  girl  in  the  hammock.  That  was  very 
pretty,  all  that  about  the  Dresden  china  shep- 
herdess and  the  pond-lily  ;  the  imagery  a  little 
mixed,  perhaps,  but  very  pretty.  I  did  n't  sup- 
pose you  had  so  much  sentimental  furniture 
in  your  upper  story.  It  shows  how  one  may 
be  familiar  for  years  with  the  reception-room  of 
his  neighbor,  and  never  suspect  what  is  directly 
under  his  mansard.  I  supposed  your  loft  stuffed 
with  dry  legal  parchments,  mortgages,  and  affi- 
davits ;  you  take  down  a  package  of  manuscript, 
and  lo !  there  are  lyrics  and  sonnets  and  canzon- 
ettas.  You  really  have  a  graphic  descriptive 
touch,  Edward  Delaney,  and  I  suspect  you  of 
anonymous  love-tales  in  the  magazines. 

I  shall  be  a  bear  until  I  hear  from  you  again. 
Tell  me  all  about  your  pretty  inconnue  across 
the  road.  What  is  her  name?  Who  is  she? 
Who  's  her  father  ?  Where  's  her  mother  ? 
Who  's  her  lover  ?  You  cannot  imagine  how 
this  will  occupy  me.  The  more  trifling,  the 


MARJORIE   DAW  II 

better.  My  imprisonment  has  weakened  me 
intellectually  to  such  a  degree  that  I  find 
your  epistolary  gifts  quite  considerable.  I  am 
passing  into  my  second  childhood.  In  a  week 
or  two  I  shall  take  to  India-rubber  rings  and 
prongs  of  coral.  A  silver  cup,  with  an  appro- 
priate inscription,  would  be  a  delicate  attention 
on  your  part.  In  the  meantime,  write ! 


IV 


EDWARD  DELANEY  TO  JOHN   FLEMMING 

August  12,  1872 

THE  sick  pasha  shall  be  amused.  Bismillah  ! 
he  wills  it  so.  If  the  story-teller  becomes  pro- 
lix and  tedious  —  the  bow-string  and  the  sack, 
and  two  Nubians  to  drop  him  into  the  Piscata- 
qua !  But  truly,  Jack,  I  have  a  hard  task. 
There  is  literally  nothing  here  —  except  the 
little  girl  over  the  way.  She  is  swinging  in  the 
hammock  at  this  moment.  It  is  to  me  compen- 
sation for  many  of  the  ills  of  life  to  see  her 
now  and  then  put  out  a  small  kid  boot,  which 
fits  like  a  glove,  and  set  herself  going.  Who 
is  she,  and  what  is  her  name  ?  Her  name  is 
Daw.  Only  daughter  of  Mr.  Richard  W.  Daw, 
ex-colonel  and  banker.  Mother  dead.  One 
brother  at  Harvard,  elder  brother  killed  at  the 
battle  of  Fair  Oaks,  ten  years  ago.  Old,  rich 
family,  the  Daws.  This  is  the  homestead, 
where  father  and  daughter  pass  eight  months 
of  the  twelve;  the  rest  of  the  year  in  Balti- 
more and  Washington.  The  New  England 


MARJORIE .  DAW  13 

winter  too  many  for  the  old  gentleman.  The 
daughter  is  called  Marjorie  —  Marjorie  Daw. 
Sounds  odd  at  first,  does  n't  it  ?  But  after  you 
say  it  over  to  yourself  half  a  dozen  times,  you 
like  it.  There 's  a  pleasing  quaintness  to  it, 
something  prim  and  pansy-like.  Must  be  a 
nice  sort  of  girl  to  be  called  Marjorie  Daw. 

I  had  mine  host  of  The  Pines  in  the  witness- 
box  last  night,  and  drew  the  foregoing  testimony 
from  him.  He  has  charge  of  Mr.  Daw's  vege- 
table-garden, and  has  known  the  family  these 
thirty  years.  Of  course  I  shall  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  my  neighbors  before  many  days. 
It  will  be  next  to  impossible  for  me  not  to  meet 
Mr.  Daw  or  Miss  Daw  in  some  of  my  walks. 
The  young  lady  has  a  favorite  path  to  the  sea- 
beach.  I  shall  intercept  her  some  morning, 
and  touch  my  hat  to  her.  Then  the  princess 
will  bend  her  fair  head  to  me  with  courteous 
surprise  not  unmixed  with  haughtiness.  Will 
snub  me,  in  fact.  All  this  for  thy  sake,  O 
Pasha  of  the  Snapt  Axle-tree !  .  .  .  How  oddly 
things  fall  out !  Ten  minutes  ago  I  was  called 
down  to  the  parlor  —  you  know  the  kind  of  par- 
lors in  farm-houses  on  the  coast,  a  sort  of  am- 
phibious parlor,  with  sea-shells  on  the  mantel- 
piece and  spruce  branches  in  the  chimney-place 
—  where  I  found  my  father  and  Mr.  Daw  doing 
the  antique  polite  to  each  other.  He  had  come 


i4  MARJORIE   DAW 

to  pay  his  respects  to  his  new  neighbors.  Mr. 
Daw  is  a  tall,  slim  gentleman  of  about  fifty-five, 
with  a  florid  face  and  snow-white  mustache  and 
side-whiskers.  Looks  like  Mr.  Dombey,  or  as 
Mr.  Dombey  would  have  looked  if  he  had 
served  a  few  years  in  the  British  Army.  Mr. 
Daw  was  a  colonel  in  the  late  war,  commanding 
the  regiment  in  which  his  son  was  a  lieutenant. 
Plucky  old  boy,  backbone  of  New  Hampshire 
granite.  Before  taking  his  leave,  the  colonel 
delivered  himself  of  an  invitation  as  if  he  were 
issuing  a  general  order.  Miss  Daw  has  a  few 
friends  coming,  at  4  P.  M.,  to  play  croquet  on 
the  lawn  (parade-ground)  and  have  tea  (cold 
rations)  on  the  piazza..  Will  we  honor  them 
with  our  company?  (or  be  sent  to  the  guard- 
house.) My  father  declines  on  the  plea  of  ill- 
health.  My  father's  son  bows  with  as  much 
suavity  as  he  knows,  and  accepts. 

In  my  next  I  shall  have  something  to  tell 
you.  I  shall  have  seen  the  little  beauty  face 
to  face.  I  have  a  presentiment,  Jack,  that  this 
Daw  is  a  ram  avis  !  Keep  up  your  spirits,  my 
boy,  until  I  write  you  another  letter  —  and 
send  me  along  word  how  's  your  leg. 


EDWARD   DELANEY  TO  JOHN   FLEMMING 

August  13,  1872 

THE  party,  my  dear  Jack,  was  as  dreary  as 
possible.  A  lieutenant  of  the  navy,  the  rector 
of  the  Episcopal  church  at  Stillwater,  and  a 
society  swell  from  Nahant.  The  lieutenant 
looked  as  if  he  had  swallowed  a  couple  of  his 
buttons,  and  found  the  bullion  rather  indiges- 
tible; the  rector  was  a  pensive  youth,  of  the 
daffydowndilly  sort ;  and  the  swell  from  Na- 
hant was  a  very  weak  tidal  wave  indeed.  The 
women  were  much  better,  as  they  always  are  ; 
the  two  Miss  Kingsburys  of  Philadelphia,  stay- 
ing at  the  Sea-shell  House,  two  bright  and 
engaging  girls.  But  Marjorie  Daw! 

The  company  broke  up  soon  after  tea,  and  I 
remained  to  smoke  a  cigar  with  the  colonel  on 
the  piazza.  It  was  like  seeing  a  picture,  to  see 
Miss  Marjorie  hovering  around  the  old  soldier, 
and  doing  a  hundred  gracious  little  things  for 
him.  She  brought  the  cigars  and  lighted  the 
tapers  with  her  own  delicate  fingers,  in  the 


16  MARJORIE  DAW 

most  enchanting  fashion.  As  we  sat  there,  she 
came  and  went  in  the  summer  twilight,  and 
seemed,  with  her  white  dress  and  pale  gold  hair, 
like  some  lovely  phantom  that  had  sprung  into 
existence  out  of  the  smoke-wreaths.  If  she 
had  melted  into  air,  like  the  statue  of  Galatea 
in  the  play,  I  should  have  been  more  sorry  than 
surprised. 

It  was  easy  to  perceive  that  the  old  colonel 
worshipped  her,  and  she  him.  I  think  the  rela- 
tion between  an  elderly  father  and  a  daughter 
just  blooming  into  womanhood  the  most  beauti- 
ful possible.  There  is  in  it  a  subtile  sentiment 
that  cannot  exist  in  the  case  of  mother  and 
daughter,  or  that  of  son  and  mother.  But  this 
is  getting  into  deep  water. 

I  sat  with  the  Daws  until  half  past  ten,  and 
saw  the  moon  rise  on  the  sea.  The  ocean,  that 
had  stretched  motionless  and  black  against  the 
horizon,  was  changed  by  magic  into  a  broken 
field  of  glittering  ice,  interspersed  with  mar- 
vellous silvery  fjords.  In  the  far  distance  the 
Isles  of  Shoals  loomed  up  like  a  group  of  huge 
bergs  drifting  down  on  us.  The  Polar  Regions 
in  a  June  thaw !  It  was  exceedingly  fine. 
What  did  we  talk  about  ?  We  talked  about 
the  weather  —  and  you  !  The  weather  has 
been  disagreeable  for  several  days  past  —  and 
so  have  you.  I  glided  from  one  topic  to  the 


MARJORIE   DAW  17 

other  very  naturally.  I  told  my  friends  of  your 
accident ;  how  it  had  frustrated  all  our  summer 
plans,  and  what  our  plans  were.  I  played 
quite  a  spirited  solo  on  the  fibula.  Then  I 
described  you ;  or,  rather,  I  did  n't.  I  spoke 
of  your  amiability,  of  your  patience  under  this 
severe  affliction  ;  of  your  touching  gratitude 
when  Dillon  brings  you  little  presents  of  fruit ; 
of  your  tenderness  to  your  sister  Fanny,  whom 
you  would  not  allow  to  stay  in  town  to  nurse 
you,  and  how  you  heroically  sent  her  back  to 
Newport,  preferring  to  remain  alone  with  Mary, 
the  cook,  and  your  man  Watkins,  to  whom,  by 
the  way,  you  were  devotedly  attached.  If  you 
had  been  there,  Jack,  you  would  n't  have  known 
yourself.  I  should  have  excelled  as  a  criminal 
lawyer,  if  I  had  not  turned  my  attention  to  a 
different  branch  of  jurisprudence. 

Miss  Marjorie  asked  all  manner  of  leading 
questions  concerning  you.  It  did  not  occur  to 
me  then,  but  it  struck  me  forcibly  afterwards, 
that  she  evinced  a  singular  interest  in  the  con- 
versation. When  I  got  back  to  my  room,  I  re- 
called how  eagerly  she  leaned  forward,  with  her 
full,  snowy  throat  in  strong  moonlight,  listening 
to  what  I  said.  Positively,  I  think  I  made  her 
like  you  ! 

Miss  Daw  is  a  girl  whom  you  would  like  im- 
mensely, I  can  tell  you  that.  A  beauty 


18  MARJORIE   DAW 

out  affectation,  a  high  and  tender  nature  —  if 
one  can  read  the  soul  in  the  face.  And  the  old 
colonel  is  a  noble  character,  too. 

I  am  glad  that  the  Daws  are  such  pleasant 
persons.  The  Pines  is  an  isolated  spot,  and  my 
resources  are  few.  I  fear  I  should  have  found 
life  here  somewhat  monotonous  before  long, 
with  no  other  society  than  that  of  my  excellent 
sire.  It  is  true,  I  might  have  made  a  target  of 
the  defenceless  invalid ;  but  I  have  n't  a  taste 
for  artillery,  mot. 


VI 


JOHN   FLEMMING  TO   EDWARD   DELANEY 

August  17,  1872 

FOR  a  man  who  has  n't  a  taste  for  artillery,  it 
occurs  to  me,  my  friend,  you  are  keeping  up  a 
pretty  lively  fire  on  my  inner  works.  But  go 
on.  Cynicism  is  a  small  brass  field-piece  that 
eventually  bursts  and  kills  the  artilleryman. 

You  may  abuse  me  as  much  as  you  like,  and 
I  '11  not  complain;  for  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  do  without  your  letters.  They  are  cur- 
ing me.  I  have  n't  hurled  anything  at  Watkins 
since  last  Sunday,  partly  because  I  have  grown 
more  amiable  under  your  teaching,  and  partly 
because  Watkins  captured  my  ammunition  one 
night,  and  carried  it  off  to  the  library.  He 
is  rapidly  losing  the  habit  he  had  acquired  of 
dodging  whenever  I  rub  my  ear,  or  make  any 
slight  motion  with  my  right  arm.  He  is  still 
suggestive  of  the  wine-cellar,  however.  You 
may  break,  you  may  shatter  Watkins,  if  you 
will,  but  the  scent  of  the  Roederer  will  hang 
round  him  still. 


ao  MARJORIE   DAW 

Ned,  that  Miss  Daw  must  be  a  charming  per- 
son. I  should  certainly  like  her.  I  like  her 
already.  When  you  spoke  in  your  first  letter 
of  seeing  a  young  girl  swinging  in  a  hammock 
under  your  chamber  window,  I  was  somehow 
strangely  drawn  to  her.  I  cannot  account  for 
it  in  the  least.  What  you  have  subsequently 
written  of  Miss  Daw  has  strengthened  the  im- 
pression. You  seem  to  be  describing  a  woman 
I  have  known  in  some  previous  state  of  exist- 
ence, or  dreamed  of  in  this.  Upon  my  word, 
if  you  were  to  send  me  her  photograph,  I  be- 
lieve I  should  recognize  her  at  a  glance.  Her 
manner,  that  listening  attitude,  her  traits  of 
character,  as  you  indicate  them,  the  light  hair 
and  the  dark  eyes  —  they  are  all  familiar  things 
to  me.  Asked  a  lot  of  questions,  did  she? 
Curious  about  me  ?  That  is  strange. 

You  would  laugh  in  your  sleeve,  you  wretched 
old  cynic,  if  you  knew  how  I  lie  awake  nights, 
with  my  gas  turned  down  to  a  star,  thinking  of 
The  Pines  and  the  house  across  the  road.  How 
cool  it  must  be  down  there  !  I  long  for  the  salt 
smell  in  the  air.  I  picture  the  colonel  smoking 
his  cheroot  on  the  piazza.  I  send  you  and  Miss 
Daw  off  on  afternoon  rambles  along  the  beach. 
Sometimes  I  let  you  stroll  with  her  under  the 
elms  in  the  moonlight,  for  you  are  great  friends 
by  this  time,  I  take  it,  and  see  each  other  every 


MARJORIE   DAW  21 

day.  I  know  your  ways  and  your  manners  ! 
Then  I  fall  into  a  truculent  mood,  and  would 
like  to  destroy  somebody.  Have  you  noticed 
anything  in  the  shape  of  a  lover  hanging  around 
the  colonial  Lares  and  Penates?  Does  that 
lieutenant  of  the  horse-marines  or  that  young 
Stillwater  parson  visit  the  house  much  ?  Not 
that  I  am  pining  for  news  of  them,  but  any 
gossip  of  the  kind  would  be  in  order.  I  wonder, 
Ned,  you  don't  fall  in  love  with  Miss  Daw.  I 
am  ripe  to  do  it  myself.  Speaking  of  photo- 
graphs, couldn't  you  manage  to  slip  one  of 
her  cartes  de  visite  from  her  album  —  she  must 
have  an  album,  you  know  —  and  send  it  to 
me  ?  I  will  return  it  before  it  could  be  missed. 
That 's  a  good  fellow !  Did  the  mare  arrive 
safe  and  sound  ?  It  will  be  a  capital  animal 
this  autumn  for  Central  Park. 

Oh  —  my  leg  ?     I  forgot  about  my  leg.    It 's 
better. 


VII 

EDWARD  DELANEY  TO  JOHN   FLEMMING 

August  20,  1872 

You  are  correct  in  your  surmises.  I  am  on 
the  most  friendly  terms  with  our  neighbors. 
The  colonel  and  my  father  smoke  their  after- 
noon cigar  together  in  our  sitting-room  or  on 
the  piazza  opposite,  and  I  pass  an  hour  or  two 
of  the  day  or  the  evening  with  the  daughter. 
I  am  more  and  more  struck  by  the  beauty, 
modesty,  and  intelligence  of  Miss  Daw. 

You  ask  me  why  I  do  not  fall  in  love  with 
her.  I  will  be  frank,  Jack  :  I  have  thought  of 
that.  She  is  young,  rich,  accomplished,  uniting 
in  herself  more  attractions,  mental  and  personal, 
than  I  can  recall  in  any  girl  of  my  acquaintance ; 
but  she  lacks  the  something  that  would  be 
necessary  to  inspire  in  me  that  kind  of  interest. 
Possessing  this  unnamed  quantity,  a  woman 
neither  beautiful  nor  wealthy  nor  very  young 
could  bring  me  to  her  feet.  But  not  Miss  Daw. 
If  we  were  shipwrecked  together  on  an  un- 
inhabited island  —  let  me  suggest  a  tropical 


MARJORIE   DAW  23 

island,  for  it  costs  no  more  to  be  picturesque  — 
I  would  build  her  a  bamboo  hut,  I  would  fetch 
her  bread-fruit  and  cocoanuts,  I  would  fry  yams 
for  her,  I  would  lure  the  ingenuous  turtle  and 
make  her  nourishing  soups,  but  I  wouldn't 
make  love  to  her  —  not  under  eighteen  months. 
I  would  like  to  have  her  for  a  sister,  that  I 
might  shield  her  and  counsel  her,  and  spend 
half  my  income  on  old  thread-lace  and  camel' s- 
hair  shawls.  (We  are  off  the  island  now.)  If 
such  were  not  my  feeling,  there  would  still  be 
an  obstacle  to  my  loving  Miss  Daw.  A  greater 
misfortune  could  scarcely  befall  me  than  to  love 
her.  Flemming,  I  am  about  to  make  a  revela- 
tion that  will  astonish  you.  I  may  be  all  wrong 
in  my  premises  and  consequently  in  my  con- 
clusions ;  but  you  shall  judge. 

That  night  when  I  returned  to  my  room 
after  the  croquet  party  at  the  Daws',  and  was 
thinking  over  the  trivial  events  of  the  evening, 
I  was  suddenly  impressed  by  the  air  of  eager 
attention  with  which  Miss  Daw  had  followed 
my  account  of  your  accident.  I  think  I  men- 
tioned this  to  you.  Well,  the  next  morning,  as 
I  went  to  mail  my  letter,  I  overtook  Miss  Daw 
on  the  road  to  Rye,  where  the  post-office  is, 
and  accompanied  her  thither  and  back,  an  hour's 
walk.  The  conversation  again  turned  on  you, 
and  again  I  remarked  that  inexplicable  look  of 


24  MARJORIE   DAW 

interest  which  had  lighted  up  her  face  the  pre. 
vious  evening.  Since  then,  I  have  seen  Miss 
Daw  perhaps  ten  times,  perhaps  oftener,  and 
on  each  occasion  I  found  that  when  I  was  not 
speaking  of  you,  or  your  sister,  or  some  person 
or  place  associated  with  you,  I  was  not  holding 
her  attention.  She  would  be  absent-minded, 
her  eyes  would  wander  away  from  me  to  the 
sea,  or  to  some  distant  object  in  the  landscape ; 
her  fingers  would  play  with  the  leaves  of  a  book 
in  a  way  that  convinced  me  she  was  not  listen- 
ing. At  these  moments  if  I  abruptly  changed 
the  theme  —  I  did  it  several  times  as  an  experi- 
ment —  and  dropped  some  remark  about  my 
friend  Flemming,  then  the  sombre  blue  eyes 
would  come  back  to  me  instantly. 

Now,  is  not  this  the  oddest  thing  in  the 
world  ?  No,  not  the  oddest.  The  effect  which 
you  tell  me  was  produced  on  you  by  my  casual 
mention  of  an  unknown  girl  swinging  in  a  ham- 
mock is  certainly  as  strange.  You  can  conjec- 
ture how  that  passage  in  your  letter  of  Friday 
startled  me.  Is  it  possible,  then,  that  two  per- 
sons who  have  never  met,  and  who  are  hun- 
dreds of  miles  apart,  can  exert  a  magnetic 
influence  on  each  other  ?  I  have  read  of  such 
psychological  phenomena,  but  never  credited 
them.  I  leave  the  solution  of  the  problem  to 
you.  As  for  myself,  all  other  things  being 
favorable,  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  fall 


MARJORIE   DAW  25 

in  love  with  a  woman  who  listens  to  me  only 
when  I  am  talking  of  my  friend  ! 

I  am  not  aware  that  any  one  is  paying  marked 
attention  to  my  fair  neighbor.  The  lieutenant 
of  the  navy  —  he  is  stationed  at  Rivermouth  — 
sometimes  drops  in  of  an  evening,  and  some- 
times the  rector  from  Stillvvater ;  the  lieutenant 
the  oftener.  He  was  there  last  night.  I  should 
not  be  surprised  if  he  had  an  eye  to  the  heiress ; 
but  he  is  not  formidable.  Mistress  Daw  carries 
a  neat  little  spear  of  irony,  and  the  honest  lieu- 
tenant seems  to  have  a  particular  facility  for 
impaling  himself  on  the  point  of  it.  He  is  not 
dangerous,  I  should  say ;  though  I  have  known 
a  woman  to  satirize  a  man  for  years,  and  marry 
him  after  all.  Decidedly,  the  lowly  rector  is 
not  dangerous ;  yet,  again,  who  has  not  seen 
Cloth  of  Frieze  victorious  in  the  lists  where 
Cloth  of  Gold  went  down  ? 

As  to  the  photograph.  There  is  an  exquisite 
ivorytype  of  Marjorie,  in  passe-partout,  on  the 
drawing-room  mantel-piece.  It  would  be  missed 
at  once  if  taken.  I  would  do  anything  reason- 
able for  you,  Jack ;  but  I  Ve  no  burning  desire 
to  be  hauled  up  before  the  local  justice  of  the 
peace,  on  a  charge  of  petty  larceny. 

P.  S.  —  Enclosed  is  a  spray  of  mignonette, 
which  I  advise  you  to  treat  tenderly.  Yes,  we 
talked  of  you  again  last  night,  as  usual.  It  is 
becoming  a  little  dreary  for  me. 


VIII 

EDWARD  DELANEY  TO  JOHN   FLEMMING 

August  22,  1872 

YOUR  letter  in  reply  to  my  last  has  occupied 
my  thoughts  all  the  morning.  I  do  not  know 
what  to  think.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
are  seriously  half  in  love  with  a  woman  whom 
you  have  never  seen  —  with  a  shadow,  a  chi- 
mera ?  for  what  else  can  Miss  Daw  be  to  you  ? 
I  do  not  understand  it  at  all.  I  understand 
neither  you  nor  her.  You  are  a  couple  of  ethe- 
real beings  moving  in  finer  air  than  I  can 
breathe  with  my  commonplace  lungs.  Such 
delicacy  of  sentiment  is  something  that  I  admire 
without  comprehending.  I  am  bewildered.  I 
am  of  the  earth  earthy,  and  I  find  myself  in 
the  incongruous  position  of  having  to  do  with 
mere  souls,  with  natures  so  finely  tempered 
that  I  run  some  risk  of  shattering  them  in 
my  awkwardness.  I  am  as  Caliban  among  the 
spirits ! 

Reflecting  on  your  letter,  I  am  not  sure  that 
it  is  wise  in  me  to  continue  this  correspondence. 


MARJORIE   DAW  27 

But  no,  Jack ;  I  do  wrong  to  doubt  the  good 
sense  that  forms  the  basis  of  your  character. 
You  are  deeply  interested  in  Miss  Daw ;  you 
feel  that  she  is  a  person  whom  you  may  per- 
haps greatly  admire  when  you  know  her  :  at  the 
same  time  you  bear  in  mind  that  the  chances 
are  ten  to  five  that,  when  you  do  come  to  know 
her,  she  will  fall  far  short  of  your  ideal,  and 
you  will  not  care  for  her  in  the  least.  Look  at 
it  in  this  sensible  light,  and  I  will  hold  back 
nothing  from  you. 

Yesterday  afternoon  my  father  and  myself 
rode  over  to  Rivermouth  with  the  Daws.  A 
heavy  rain  in  the  morning  had  cooled  the  at- 
mosphere and  laid  the  dust.  To  Rivermouth 
is  a  drive  of  eight  miles,  along  a  winding  road 
lined  all  the  way  with  wild  barberry-bushes.  I 
never  saw  anything  more  brilliant  than  these 
bushes,  the  green  of  the  foliage  and  the  faint 
blush  of  the  berries  intensified  by  the  rain. 
The  colonel  drove,  with  my  father  in  front, 
Miss  Daw  and  I  on  the  back  seat.  I  resolved 
that  for  the  first  five  miles  your  name  should 
not  pass  my  lips.  I  was  amused  by  the  artful 
attempts  she  made,  at  the  start,  to  break  through 
my  reticence.  Then  a  silence  fell  upon  her ; 
and  then  she  became  suddenly  gay.  That  keen- 
ness which  I  enjoyed  so  much  when  it  was  ex- 
ercised on  the  lieutenant  was  not  so  satisfactory 


28  MARJORIE   DAW 

directed  against  myself.  Miss  Daw  has  great 
sweetness  of  disposition,  but  she  can  be  dis- 
agreeable. She  is  like  the  young  lady  in  the 
rhyme,  with  the  curl  on  her  forehead  — 

"  When  she  is  good, 

She  is  very,  very  good, 
And  when  she  is  bad,  she  is  horrid  !  " 

I  kept  to  my  resolution,  however ;  but  on  the 
return  home  I  relented,  and  talked  of  your 
mare  !  Miss  Daw  is  going  to  try  a  side-saddle 
on  Margot  some  morning.  The  animal  is  a 
trifle  too  light  for  my  weight.  By  the  bye,  I 
nearly  forgot  to  say  that  Miss  Daw  sat  for  a 
picture  yesterday  to  a  Rivermouth  artist.  If 
the  negative  turns  out  well,  I  am  to  have  a 
copy.  So  our  ends  will  be  accomplished  with- 
out crime.  I  wish,  though,  I  could  send  you 
the  ivorytype  in  the  drawing-room  ;  it  is  cleverly 
colored,  and  would  give  you  an  idea  of  her  hair 
and  eyes,  which  of  course  the  other  will  not. 

No,  Jack,  the  spray  of  mignonette  did  not 
come  from  me.  A  man  of  twenty-eight  does  n't 
enclose  flowers  in  his  letters  —  to  another  man. 
But  don't  attach  too  much  significance  to  the 
circumstance.  She  gives  sprays  of  mignonette 
to  the  rector,  sprays  to  the  lieutenant.  She 
has  even  given  a  rose  from  her  bosom  to  your 
slave.  It  is  her  jocund  nature  to  scatter  flow- 
ers, like  Spring. 


MARJORIE   DAW  29 

If  my  letters  sometimes  read  disjoint edly, 
you  must  understand  that  I  never  finish  one  at 
a  sitting,  but  write  at  intervals,  when  the  mood 
is  on  me. 

The  mood  is  not  on  me  now. 


IX 


EDWARD   DELANEY   TO  JOHN   FLEMMING 

August  23, 1872 

I  HAVE  just  returned  from  the  strangest  in- 
terview with  Marjorie.  She  has  all  but  con- 
fessed to  me  her  interest  in  you.  But  with 
what  modesty  and  dignity !  Her  words  elude 
my  pen  as  I  attempt  to  put  them  on  paper ; 
and,  indeed,  it  was  not  so  much  what  she  said 
as  her  manner ;  and  that  I  cannot  reproduce. 
Perhaps  it  was  of  a  piece  with  the  strangeness 
of  this  whole  business,  that  she  should  tacitly 
acknowledge  to  a  third  party  the  love  she  feels 
for  a  man  she  has  never  beheld  !  But  I  have 
lost,  through  your  aid,  the  faculty  of  being  sur- 
prised. I  accept  things  as  persons  do  in  dreams. 
Now  that  I  am  again  in  my  room,  it  all  appears 
like  an  illusion  —  the  black  masses  of  Rem- 
brandtish  shadow  under  the  trees,  the  fireflies 
whirling  in  Pyrrhic  dances  among  the  shrub- 
bery, the  sea  over  there,  Marjorie  sitting  in 
the  hammock ! 

It  is  past  midnight,  and  I  am  too  sleepy  to 
write  more. 


MARJORIE   DAW  31 

Thursday  Morning 

My  father  has  suddenly  taken  it  into  his  head 
to  spend  a  few  days  at  the  Shoals.  In  the 
meanwhile  you  will  not  hear  from  me.  I  see 
Marjorie  walking  in  the  garden  with  the  colonel. 
I  wish  I  could  speak  to  her  alone,  but  shall 
probably  not  have  an  opportunity  before  we 
leave. 


EDWARD   DELANEY   TO  JOHN    FLEMMING 

August  28,  1872 

You  were  passing  into  your  second  childhood, 
were  you  ?  Your  intellect  was  so  reduced  that 
my  epistolary  gifts  seemed  quite  considerable 
to  you,  did  they  ?  I  rise  superior  to  the  sar- 
casm in  your  favor  of  the  i  ith  instant,  when 
I  notice  that  five  days'  silence  on  my  part  is 
sufficient  to  throw  you  into  the  depths  of  de- 
spondency. 

We  returned  only  this  morning  from  Apple- 
dore,  that  enchanted  island  —  at  four  dollars 
per  day.  I  find  on  my  desk  three  letters  from 
you !  Evidently  there  is  no  lingering  doubt  in 
your  mind  as  to  the  pleasure  I  derive  from  your 
correspondence.  These  letters  are  undated,  but 
in  what  I  take  to  be  the  latest  are  two  pas- 
sages that  require  my  consideration.  You  will 
pardon  my  candor,  dear  Flemming,  but  the 
conviction  forces  itself  upon  me  that  as  your 
leg  grows  stronger  your  head  becomes  weaker. 
You  ask  my  advice  on  a  certain  point.  I  will 


MARJORIE   DAW  33 

give  it.  In  my  opinion  you  could  do  nothing 
more  unwise  than  to  address  a  note  to  Miss 
Daw,  thanking  her  for  the  flower.  It  would, 
I  am  sure,  offend  her  delicacy  beyond  pardon. 
She  knows  you  only  through  me ;  you  are  to 
her  an  abstraction,  a  figure  in  a  dream  —  a 
dream  from  which  the  faintest  shock  would 
awaken  her.  Of  course,  if  you  enclose  a  note 
to  me  and  insist  on  its  delivery,  I  shall  de- 
liver it ;  but  I  advise  you  not  to  do  so. 

You  say  you  are  able,  with  the  aid  of  a  cane,  to 
walk  about  your  chamber,  and  that  you  purpose 
to  come  to  The  Pines  the  instant  Dillon  thinks 
you  strong  enough  to  stand  the  journey.  Again 
I  advise  you  not  to.  Do  you  not  see  that, 
every  hour  you  remain  away,  Marjorie's  glamour 
deepens,  and  your  influence  over  her  increases  ? 
You  will  ruin  everything  by  precipitancy.  Wait 
until  you  are  entirely  recovered ;  in  any  case, 
do  not  come  without  giving  me  warning.  I 
fear  the  effect  of  your  abrupt  advent  here  — 
under  the  circumstances. 

Miss  Daw  was  evidently  glad  to  see  us  back 
again,  and  gave  me  both  hands  in  the  frankest 
way.  She  stopped  at  the  door  a  moment  this 
afternoon  in  the  carriage  ;  she  had  been  over 
to  Rivermouth  for  her  pictures.  Unluckily  the 
photographer  had  spilt  some  acid  on  the  plate, 
and  she  was  obliged  to  give  him  another  sitting, 


34  MARJORIE  DAW 

I  have  an  intuition  that  something  is  troubling 
Marjorie.  She  had  an  abstracted  air  not  usual 
with  her.  However,  it  may  be  only  my  fancy. 
...  I  end  this,  leaving  several  things  unsaid, 
to  accompany  my  father  on  one  of  those  long 
walks  which  are  now  his  chief  medicine  —  and 
minel 


XI 


EDWARD  DELANEY  TO  JOHN   FLEMMING 

August  29,  1872 

I  WRITE  in  great  haste  to  tell  you  what  has 
taken  place  here  since  my  letter  of  last  night. 
I  am  in  the  utmost  perplexity.  Only  one  thing 
is  plain  — you  must  not  dream  of  coming  to  The 
Pines.  Marjorie  has  told  her  father  every* 
thing !  I  saw  her  for  a  few  minutes,  an  hour 
ago,  in  the  garden ;  and,  as  near  as  I  could 
gather  from  her  confused  statement,  the  facts 
are  these  :  Lieutenant  Bradley  —  that 's  the 
naval  officer  stationed  at  Rivermouth  —  has 
been  paying  court  to  Miss  Daw  for  some  time 
past,  but  not  so  much  to  her  liking  as  to  that 
of  the  colonel,  who  it  seems  is  an  old  friend  of 
the  young  gentleman's  father.  Yesterday  (I 
knew  she  was  in  some  trouble  when  she  drove 
up  to  our  gate)  the  colonel  spoke  to  Marjorie 
of  Bradley  —  urged  his  suit,  I  infer.  Marjorie 
expressed  her  dislike  for  the  lieutenant  with 
characteristic  frankness,  and  finally  confessed 
to  her  father  —  well,  I  really  do  not  know  what 


36  MARJORIE   DAW 

she  confessed.  It  must  have  been  the  vaguest 
of  confessions,  and  must  have  sufficiently  puz- 
zled the  colonel.  At  any  rate,  it  exasperated 
him.  I  suppose  I  am  implicated  in  the  matter, 
and  that  the  colonel  feels  bitterly  towards  me. 
I  do  not  see  why :  I  have  carried  no  messages 
between  you  and  Miss  Daw  ;  I  have  behaved 
with  the  greatest  discretion.  I  can  find  no 
flaw  anywhere  in  my  proceeding.  I  do  not  see 
that  anybody  has  done  anything  —  except  the 
colonel  himself. 

It  is  probable,  nevertheless,  that  the  friendly 
relations  between  the  two  houses  will  be  broken 
off.  "  A  plague  o'  both  your  houses,"  say  you. 
I  will  keep  you  informed,  as  well  as  I  can,  of 
what  occurs  over  the  way.  We  shall  remain 
here  until  the  second  week  in  September. 
Stay  where  you  are,  or,  at  all  events,  do  not 
dream  of  joining  me.  .  .  .  Colonel  Daw  is  sit- 
ting on  the  piazza  looking  rather  wicked.  I 
have  not  seen  Marjorie  since  I  parted  with  her 
in  the  garden. 


XII 

EDWARD  DEI  ANEY   TO  THOMAS    DILLON,  M.  D.,  MADI- 
SON  SQUARE,    NEW   YORK 

August  30,  1872 

MY  DEAR  DOCTOR  :  If  you  have  any  in- 
fluence over  Flemming,  I  beg  of  you  to  exert 
it  to  prevent  his  coming  to  this  place  at  present. 
There  are  circumstances,  which  I  will  explain 
to  you  before  long,  that  make  it  of  the  first 
importance  that  he  should  not  come  into  this 
neighborhood.  His  appearance  here,  I  speak 
advisedly,  would  be  disastrous  to  him.  In  urg- 
ing him  to  remain  in  New  York,  or  to  go  to 
some  inland  resort,  you  will  be  doing  him  and 
me  a  real  service.  Of  course  you  will  not  men- 
tion my  name  in  this  connection.  You  know 
me  well  enough,  my  dear  doctor,  to  be  assured 
that,  in  begging  your  secret  cooperation,  I  have 
reasons  that  will  meet  your  entire  approval 
when  they  are  made  plain  to  you.  We  shall 
return  to  town  on  the  1 5th  of  next  month,  and 
my  first  duty  will  be  to  present  myself  at  your 
hospitable  door  and  satisfy  your  curiosity,  if  I 


2GS5S8 


38  MARJORIE  DAW 

have  excited  it.  My  father,  I  am  glad  to  state, 
has  so  greatly  improved  that  he  can  no  longer 
be  regarded  as  an  invalid.  With  great  esteem, 
I  am,  etc.,  etc. 


XIII 

EDWARD   DELANEY  TO   JOHN    FLEMMING 

August  31,  1872 

YOUR  letter,  announcing  your  mad  determi- 
nation to  come  here,  has  just  reached  me.  I 
beseech  you  to  reflect  a  moment.  The  step 
would  be  fatal  to  your  interests  and  hers.  You 
would  furnish  just  cause  for  irritation  to  R.  W. 
D.  ;  and,  though  he  loves  Marjorie  devotedly, 
he  is  capable  of  going  to  any  lengths  if  op- 
posed. You  would  not  like,  I  am  convinced,  to 
be  the  means  of  causing  him  to  treat  her  with 
severity.  That  would  be  the  result  of  your 
presence  at  The  Pines  at  this  juncture.  I  am 
annoyed  to  be  obliged  to  point  out  these  things 
to  you.  We  are  on  very  delicate  ground,  Jack  ; 
the  situation  is  critical,  and  the  slightest  mis- 
take in  a  move  would  cost  us  the  game.  If 
you  consider  it  worth  the  winning,  be  patient. 
Trust  a  little  to  my  sagacity.  Wait  and  see 
what  happens.  Moreover,  I  understand  from 
Dillon  that  you  are  in  no  condition  to  take  so 


40  MARJORIE   DAW 

long  a  journey.  He  thinks  the  air  of  the  coast 
would  be  the  worst  thing  possible  for  you ; 
that  you  ought  to  go  inland,  if  anywhere.  Be 
advised  by  me.  Be  advised  by  Dillon. 


XIV 

TELEGRAMS 

September  i,  1872 
i  —  To  EDWARD  DELANEY 
Letter  received.    Dillon  be  hanged.     I  think 
I  ought  to  be  on  the  ground.  J.  F. 

2  —  To  JOHN  FLEMMING 
Stay  where  you  are.     You  would  only  com- 
plicate matters.     Do  not  move  until  you  hear 
from  me.  E.  D. 

3  —  To  EDWARD  DELANEY 
My  being  at  The  Pines  could  be  kept  secret. 
I  must  see  her.  J.  F. 

4  —  To  JOHN  FLEMMING 
Do  not  think  of  it.      It  would  be  useless. 
R.  W.  D.  has  locked  M.  in  her  room.     You 
would  not  be  able  to  effect  an  interview. 

E.  D. 
5  —  To  EDWARD  DELANEY 

Locked  her  in  her  room.  Good  God  !  That 
settles  the  question.  I  shall  leave  by  the  twelve- 
fifteen  express.  J.  F. 


XV 

THE  ARRIVAL 

ON  the  second  day  of  September,  1872,  as 
the  down  express,  due  at  3.40,  left  the  station 
at  Hampton,  a  young  man,  leaning  on  the 
shoulder  of  a  servant,  whom  he  addressed  as 
Watkins,  stepped  from  the  platform  into  a 
hack,  and  requested  to  be  driven  to  The  Pines. 
On  arriving  at  the  gate  of  a  modest  farm- 
house, a  few  miles  from  the  station,  the  young 
man  descended  with  difficulty  from  the  carriage, 
and,  casting  a  hasty  glance  across  the  road, 
seemed  much  impressed  by  some  peculiarity 
in  the  landscape.  Again  leaning  on  the  shoul- 
der of  the  person  Watkins,  he  walked  to  the 
door  of  the  farm-house  and  inquired  for  Mr. 
Edward  Delaney.  He  was  informed  by  the  aged 
man  who  answered  his  knock,  that  Mr.  Edward 
Delaney  had  gone  to  Boston  the  day  before, 
but  that  Mr.  Jonas  Delaney  was  within.  This 
information  did  not  appear  satisfactory  to  the 
stranger,  who  inquired  if  Mr.  Edward  Delaney 


MARJORIE   DAW  45 

had  left  any  message  for  Mr.  John  Flemming. 
There  was  a  letter  for  Mr.  Flemming,  if  he  were 
that  person.  After  a  brief  absence  the  aged 
man  reappeared  with  a  Letter. 


XVI 

EDWARD  DELANEY  TO  JOHN   FLEMMING 

September  i,  1872 

I  AM  horror-stricken  at  what  I  have  done ! 
When  I  began  this  correspondence  I  had  no 
other  purpose  than  to  relieve  the  tedium  of 
your  sick-chamber.  Dillon  told  me  to  cheer 
you  up.  I  tried  to.  I  thought  that  you  en- 
tered into  the  spirit  of  the  thing.  I  had  no 
idea,  until  within  a  few  days,  that  you  were 
taking  matters  au  grand  strieux. 

What  can  I  say?  I  am  in  sackcloth  and 
ashes.  I  am  a  pariah,  a  dog  of  an  outcast.  I 
tried  to  make  a  little  romance  to  interest  you, 
something  soothing  and  idyllic,  and,  by  Jove ! 
I  have  done  it  only  too  well !  My  father  does 
not  know  a  word  of  this,  so  don't  jar  the  old 
gentleman  any  more  than  you  can  help.  I  fly 
from  the  wrath  to  come — when  you  arrive! 
For  oh,  dear  Jack,  there  is  n't  any  colonial  man- 
sion on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  there  is  n't 
any  piazza,  there  isn't  any  hammock  —  there 
isn't  any  Marjorie  Daw! 


MISS    MEHETABEL'S   SON 


King.  —  Have  you  heard  the  argument  ? 

Is  there  no  offence  in  't  ? 
Ham.  —  No  offence  i'  the  world. 

HAMLBT. 

I 

THE  OLD  TAVERN  AT  BAYLEY'S  FOUR-CORNERS 

You  will  not  find  Greenton,  or  Bayley's  Four- 
Corners,  as  it  is  more  usually  designated,  on  any 
map  of  New  England  that  I  know  of.  It  is  not 
a  town  ;  it  is  not  even  a  village  ;  it  is  merely  an 
absurd  hotel.  The  almost  indescribable  place 
called  Greenton  is  at  the  intersection  of  four 
roads,  in  the  heart  of  New  Hampshire,  twenty 
miles  from  the  nearest  settlement  of  note,  and 
ten  miles  from  any  railroad  station.  A  good 
location  for  a  hotel,  you  will  say.  Precisely  ; 
but  there  has  always  been  a  hotel  there,  and 
for  the  last  dozen  years  it  has  been  pretty  well 
patronized  —  by  one  boarder.  Not  to  trifle 
with  an  intelligent  public,  I  will  state  at  once 
that,  in  the  early  part  of  this  century,  Greenton 


46  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

was  a  point  at  which  the  mail-coach  on  the 
Great  Northern  Route  stopped  to  change  horses 
and  allow  the  passengers  to  dine.  Persons  in 
the  county,  wishing  to  take  the  early  mail  Ports- 
mouth-ward, put  up  overnight  at  the  old  tavern, 
famous  for  its  irreproachable  larder  and  soft 
feather-beds.  The  tavern  at  that  time  was  kept 
by  one  Jonathan  Bay  ley,  who  rivalled  his  wallet 
in  growing  corpulent,  and  in  due  time  passed 
away.  At  his  death  the  establishment,  which 
included  a  farm,  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  son-in- 
law.  Now,  though  Bayley  left  his  son-in-law  a 
hotel  —  which  sounds  handsome  —  he  left  him 
no  guests ;  for  at  about  the  period  of  the  old 
man's  death  the  old  stage-coach  died  also. 
Apoplexy  carried  off  one,  and  steam  the  other. 
Thus,  by  a  sudden  swerve  in  the  tide  of  progress, 
the  tavern  at  the  Corners  found  itself  high  and 
dry,  like  a  wreck  on  a  sand-bank.  Shortly  after 
this  event,  or  may  be  contemporaneously,  there 
was  some  attempt  to  build  a  town  at  Greenton  ; 
but  it  apparently  failed,  if  eleven  cellars  choked 
up  with  dtbris  and  overgrown  with  burdocks  are 
any  indication  of  failure.  The  farm,  however, 
was  a  good  farm,  as  things  go  in  New  Hampshire, 
and  Tobias  Sewell,  the  son-in-law,  could  afford 
to  snap  his  fingers  at  the  travelling  public  if 
they  came  near  enough  —  which  they  never  did. 
The  hotel  remains  to-day  pretty  much  the 


MISS    MEHETABEL'S   SON  47 

same  as  when  Jonathan  Bayley  handed  in  his 
accounts  in  1840,  except  that  Sewell  has  from 
time  to  time  sold  the  furniture  of  some  of  the 
upper  chambers  to  bridal  couples  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. The  bar  is  still  open,  and  the  parlor 
door  says  PARLOUR  in  tall  black  letters.  Now 
and  then  a  passing  drover  looks  in  at  that  lonely 
bar-room,  where  a  high-shouldered  bottle  of 
Santa  Cruz  rum  ogles  with  a  peculiarly  know- 
ing air  a  shrivelled  lemon  on  a  shelf  ;  now  and 
then  a  farmer  rides  across  country  to  talk  crops 
and  stock  and  take  a  friendly  glass  with  Tobias  ; 
and  now  and  then  a  circus  caravan  with  speckled 
ponies,  or  a  menagerie  with  a  soggy  elephant, 
halts  under  the  swinging  sign,  on  which  there 
is  a  dim  mail-coach  with  four  phantomish  horses 
driven  by  a  portly  gentleman  whose  head  has 
been  washed  off  by  the  rain.  Other  customers 
there  are  none,  excepting  that  one  regular 
boarder  whom  I  have  mentioned. 

If  misery  makes  a  man  acquainted  with 
strange  bedfellows,  it  is  equally  certain  that  the 
profession  of  surveyor  and  civil  engineer  often 
takes  one  into  undreamed-of  localities.  I  had 
never  heard  of  Greenton  until  my  duties  sent 
me  there,  and  kept  me  there  two  weeks  in  the 
dreariest  season  of  the  year.  I  do  not  think  I 
would,  of  my  own  volition,  have  selected  Green- 
ton  for  a  fortnight's  sojourn  at  any  time ;  but 


48  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

now  the  business  is  over,  I  shall  never  regret 
the  circumstances  that  made  me  the  guest  of 
Tobias  Sewell,  and  brought  me  into  intimate 
relations  with  Miss  Mehetabel's  Son. 

It  was  a  black  October  night  in  the  year  of 
grace  1872,  that  discovered  me  standing  in 
front  of  the  old  tavern  at  the  Corners.  Though 
the  ten  miles'  ride  from  K had  been  de- 
pressing, especially  the  last  five  miles,  on  ac- 
count of  the  cold  autumnal  rain  that  had  set 
in,  I  felt  a  pang  of  regret  on  hearing  the  rickety 
open  wagon  turn  round  in  the  road  and  roll  off 
in  the  darkness.  There  were  no  lights  visible 
anywhere,  and  only  for  the  big,  shapeless  mass 
of  something  in  front  of  me,  which  the  driver 
had  said  was  the  hotel,  I  should  have  fancied 
that  I  had  been  set  down  by  the  roadside.  I 
was  wet  to  the  skin  and  in  no  amiable  humor ; 
and  not  being  able  to  find  bell-pull  or  knocker, 
or  even  a  door,  I  belabored  the  side  of  the 
house  with  my  heavy  walking-stick.  In  a  min- 
ute or  two  I  saw  a  light  flickering  somewhere 
aloft,  then  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  window  open- 
ing, followed  by  an  exclamation  of  disgust  as 
a  blast  of  wind  extinguished  the  candle  which 
had  given  me  an  instantaneous  picture  en  sil- 
hotiette  of  a  man  leaning  out  of  a  casement. 

"  I  say,  what  do  you  want,  down  there  ? " 
inquired  an  unprepossessing  voice. 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S  SON  49 

"  I  want  to  come  in  ;  I  want  a  supper,  and  a 
bed,  and  numberless  things." 

"  This  is  n't  no  time  of  night  to  go  rousing 
honest  folks  out  of  their  sleep.  Who  are  you, 
anyway  ? " 

The  question,  superficially  considered,  was 
a  very  simple  one,  and  I,  of  all  persons  in  the 
world,  ought  to  have  been  able  to  answer  it  off- 
hand ;  but  it  staggered  me.  Strangely  enough, 
there  came  drifting  across  my  memory  the  let- 
tering on  the  back  of  a  metaphysical  work 
which  I  had  seen  years  before  on  a  shelf  in  the 
Astor  Library.  Owing  to  an  unpremeditatedly 
funny  collocation  of  title  and  author,  the  let- 
tering read  as  follows  :  "  Who  am  I  ?  Jones." 
Evidently  it  had  puzzled  Jones  to  know  who  he 
was,  or  he  would  n't  have  written  a  book  about 
it,  and  come  to  so  lame  and  impotent  a  conclu- 
sion. It  certainly  puzzled  me  at  that  instant 
to  define  my  identity.  "Thirty  years  ago,"  I 
reflected,  "  I  was  nothing ;  fifty  years  hence  I 
shall  be  nothing  again,  humanly  speaking.  In 
the  meantime,  who  am  I,  sure  enough  ? "  It 
had  never  before  occurred  to  me  what  an  indefi- 
nite article  I  was.  I  wish  it  had  not  occurred 
to  me  then.  Standing  there  in  the  rain  and 
darkness,  I  wrestled  vainly  with  the  problem, 
and  was  constrained  to  fall  back  upon  a  Yankee 
expedient. 


SO  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

"  Is  n't  this  a  hotel  ?  "  I  asked  finally. 

"Well,  it  is  a  sort  of  hotel,"  said  the  voice 
doubtfully.  My  hesitation  and  prevarication 
had  apparently  not  inspired  my  interlocutor 
with  confidence  in  me. 

"Then  let  me  in.  I  have  just  driven  over 

from  K in  this  infernal  rain.  I  am  wet 

through  and  through." 

"  But  what  do  you  want  here,  at  the  Cor- 
ners ?  What 's  your  business  ?  Folks  don't 
come  here,  leastways  in  the  middle  of  the 
night." 

"It  isn't  in  the  middle  of  the  night,"  I 
returned,  incensed.  "  I  come  on  business 
connected  with  the  new  road.  I  'm  the  super- 
intendent of  the  works." 

"  Oh ! " 

"And  if  you  don't  open  the  door  at  once, 
I  '11  raise  the  whole  neighborhood  —  and  then 
go  to  the  other  hotel." 

When  I  said  that,  I  supposed  Greenton  was 
a  village  with  a  population  of  at  least  three  or 
four  thousand,  and  was  wondering  vaguely  at 
the  absence  of  lights  and  other  signs  of  human 
habitation.  Surely,  I  thought,  all  the  people 
cannot  be  abed  and  asleep  at  half  past  ten 
o'clock :  perhaps  I  am  in  the  business  section 
of  the  town,  among  the  shops. 

"  You  jest  wait,"  said  the  voice  above. 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON  51 

This  request  was  not  devoid  of  a  certain 
accent  of  menace,  and  I  braced  myself  for  a 
sortie  on  the  part  of  the  besieged,  if  he  had  any 
such  hostile  intent.  Presently  a  door  opened 
at  the  very  place  where  I  least  expected  a  door, 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  building,  in  fact,  and 
a  man  in  his  shirtsleeves,  shielding  a  candle 
with  his  left  hand,  appeared  on  the  threshold. 
I  passed  quickly  into  the  house,  with  Mr.  Tobias 
Sewell  (for  this  was  Mr.  Sewell)  at  my  heels,  and 
found  myself  in  a  long,  low-studded  bar-room. 

There  were  two  chairs  drawn  up  before  the 
hearth,  on  which  a  huge  hemlock  backlog  was 
still  smouldering,  and  on  the  unpainted  deal 
counter  contiguous  stood  two  cloudy  glasses 
with  bits  of  lemon-peel  in  the  bottom,  hinting 
at  recent  libations.  Against  the  discolored 
wall  over  the  bar  hung  a  yellow  handbill,  in 
a  warped  frame,  announcing  that  "the  Next 
Annual  N.  H.  Agricultural  Fair  "  would  take 
place  on  the  loth  of  September,  1841.  There 
was  no  other  furniture  or  decoration  in  this 
dismal  apartment,  except  the  cobwebs  which 
festooned  the  ceiling,  hanging  down  here  and 
there  like  stalactites. 

Mr.  Sewell  set  the  candlestick  on  the  mantel- 
shelf, and  threw  some  pine-knots  on  the  fire, 
which  immediately  broke  into  a  blaze,  and 
showed  him  to  be  a  lank,  narrow-chested  man, 


52  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

past  sixty,  with  sparse,  steel-gray  hair,  and 
small,  deep-set  eyes,  perfectly  round,  like  a 
fish's,  and  of  no  particular  color.  His  chief 
personal  characteristics  seemed  to  be  too  much 
feet  and  not  enough  teeth.  His  sharply  cut, 
but  rather  simple  face,  as  he  turned  it  towards 
me,  wore  a  look  of  interrogation.  I  replied  to 
his  mute  inquiry  by  taking  out  my  pocket-book 
and  handing  him  my  business-card,  which  he 
held  up  to  the  candle  and  perused  with  great 
deliberation. 

"  You  're  a  civil  engineer,  are  you  ?  "  he  said, 
displaying  his  gums,  which  gave  his  counte- 
nance an  expression  of  almost  infantile  inno- 
cence. He  made  no  further  audible  remark, 
but  mumbled  between  his  thin  lips  something 
which  an  imaginative  person  might  have  con- 
strued into  "  If  you  're  a  civil  engineer,  I  '11  be 
blessed  if  I  would  n't  like  to  see  an  uncivil 
one ! " 

Mr.  Sewell's  growl,  however,  was  worse  than 
his  bite  —  owing  to  his  lack  of  teeth  probably 
—  for  he  very  good-naturedly  set  himself  to 
work  preparing  supper  for  me.  After  a  slice 
of  cold  ham,  and  a  warm  punch,  to  which  my 
chilled  condition  gave  a  grateful  flavor,  I  went 
to  bed  in  a  distant  chamber  in  a  most  amiable 
mood,  feeling  satisfied  that  Jones  was  a  donkey 
to  bother  himself  about  his  identity. 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON  53 

When  I  awoke,  the  sun  was  several  hours 
high.  My  bed  faced  a  window,  and  by  raising 
myself  on  one  elbow  I  could  look  out  on  what 
I  expected  would  be  the  main  street.  To  my 
astonishment  I  beheld  a  lonely  country  road 
winding  up  a  sterile  hill  and  disappearing  over 
the  ridge.  In  a  cornfield  at  the  right  of  the 
road  was  a  small  private  graveyard,  enclosed 
by  a  crumbling  stone  wall  with  a  red  gate. 
The  only  thing  suggestive  of  life  was  this  little 
corner  lot  occupied  by  death.  I  got  out  of  bed 
and  went  to  the  other  window.  There  I  had 
an  uninterrupted  sweep  of  twelve  miles  of  open 
landscape,  with  Mount  Agamenticus  in  the  pur- 
ple distance.  Not  a  house  or  a  spire  in  sight. 
"Well,"  I  exclaimed,  "Greenton  doesn't  ap- 
pear to  be  a  very  closely  packed  metropolis !  " 
That  rival  hotel  with  which  I  had  threatened 
Mr.  Sewell  overnight  was  not  a  deadly  weapon, 
looking  at  it  by  daylight.  "  By  Jove ! "  I  re- 
flected, "  may  be  I  'm  in  the  wrong  place."  But 
there,  tacked  against  a  panel  of  the  bedroom 
door,  was  a  faded  time-table  dated  Greenton, 
August  i,  1839. 

I  smiled  all  the  time  I  was  dressing,  and  went 
smiling  down-stairs,  where  I  found  Mr.  Sewell, 
assisted  by  one  of  the  fair  sex  in  the  first  bloom 
of  her  eightieth  year,  serving  breakfast  for  me 
on  a  small  table  —  in  the  bar-room ! 


54  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

"  I  overslept  myself  this  morning,"  I  remarked 
apologetically,  "and  I  see  that  I  am  putting 
you  to  some  trouble.  In  future,  if  you  will  have 
me  called,  I  will  take  my  meals  at  the  usual 
table  d'hote." 

"  At  the  what  ?  "  said  Mr.  Sewell. 

"  I  mean  with  the  other  boarders." 

Mr.  Sewell  paused  in  the  act  of  lifting  a 
chop  from  the  fire,  and,  resting  the  point  of  his 
fork  against  the  woodwork  cf  the  mantel-piece, 
grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  Bless  you  !  there  is  n't  any  other  boarders. 
There  has  n't  been  anybody  put  up  here  sence 
—  let  me  see  —  sence  father-in-law  died,  and 
that  was  in  the  fall  of  '40.  To  be  sure,  there 's 
Silas  ;  he  's  a  regular  boarder  ;  but  I  don't  count 
him." 

Mr.  Sewell  then  explained  how  the  tavern 
had  lost  its  custom  when  the  old  stage  line  was 
broken  up  by  the  railroad.  The  introduction 
of  steam  was,  in  Mr.  Sewell' s  estimation,  a 
fatal  error.  "Jest  killed  local  business.  Car- 
ried it  off,  I  'm  darned  if  I  know  where.  The 
whole  country  has  been  sort  o'  retrograding 
ever  sence  steam  was  invented." 

"  You  spoke  of  having  one  boarder,"  I  said. 

"  Silas  ?  Yes ;  he  come  here  the  summer 
my  wife  died  —  she  that  was  'Tilda  Bayley  — 
and  he  's  here  yet,  going  on  thirteen  year.  He 


MISS    MEHETABEL'S   SON  55 

could  n't  live  any  longer  with  the  old  man.  Be- 
tween you  and  I,  old  Clem  Jaffrey,  Silas's 
father,  was  a  hard  nut.  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Sewell, 
crooking  his  elbow  in  inimitable  pantomime, 
"  altogether  too  often.  Found  dead  in  the  road 
hugging  a  three-gallon  demijohn.  Habeas  cor- 
piis  in  the  barn,"  added  Mr.  Sewell,  intending, 
I  presume,  to  intimate  that  a  post-mortem  ex- 
amination had  been  deemed  necessary.  "  Silas," 
he  resumed,  in  that  respectful  tone  which  one 
should  always  adopt  when  speaking  of  capital, 
"is  a  man  of  considerable  property;  lives  on 
his  interest,  and  keeps  a  hoss  and  shay.  He 's 
a  great  scholar,  too,  Silas  ;  takes  all  the  pe-ri- 
odicals  and  the  Police  Gazette  regular." 

Mr.  Sewell  was  turning  over  a  third  chop, 
when  the  door  opened  and  a  stoutish,  middle- 
aged  little  gentleman,  clad  in  deep  black,  stepped 
into  the  room. 

"  Silas  Jaffrey,"  said  Mr.  Sewell,  with  a  com- 
prehensive sweep  of  his  arm,  picking  up  me 
and  the  new-comer  on  one  fork,  so  to  speak. 
"  Be  acquainted  !  " 

Mr.  Jaffrey  advanced  briskly,  and  gave  me 
his  hand  with  unlooked-for  cordiality.  He  was 
a  dapper  little  man,  with  a  head  as  round  and 
nearly  as  bald  as  an  orange,  and  not  unlike  an 
orange  in  complexion,  either  ;  he  had  twinkling 
gray  eyes  and  a  pronounced  Roman  nose,  the 


56  MISS    MEHETABEL'S    SON 

numerous  freckles  upon  which  were  deepened 
by  his  funereal  dress-coat  and  trousers.  He 
reminded  me  of  Alfred  de  Musset's  blackbird, 
which,  with  its  yellow  beak  and  sombre  plu- 
mage, looked  like  an  undertaker  eating  an 
omelet. 

"Silas  will  take  care  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Sew- 
ell,  taking  down  his  hat  from  a  peg  behind  the 
door.  "  I  've  got  the  cattle  to  look  after.  Tell 
him,  if  you  want  anything." 

While  I  ate  my  breakfast,  Mr.  Jaffrey  hopped 
up  and  down  the  narrow  bar-room  and  chirped 
away  as  blithely  as  a  bird  on  a  cherry-bough, 
occasionally  ruffling  with  his  fingers  a  slight 
fringe  of  auburn  hair  which  stood  up  pertly 
round  his  head  and  seemed  to  possess  a  lumi- 
nous quality  of  its  own. 

"  Don't  I  find  it  a  little  slow  up  here  at  the 
Corners  ?  Not  at  all,  my  dear  sir.  I  am  in 
the  thick  of  life  up  here.  So  many  interesting 
things  going  on  all  over  the  world  —  inventions, 
discoveries,  spirits,  railroad  disasters,  mysteri- 
ous homicides.  Poets,  murderers,  musicians, 
statesmen,  distinguished  travellers,  prodigies  of 
all  kinds  turning  up  everywhere.  Very  few 
events  or  persons  escape  me.  I  take  three 
daily  city  papers,  six  weekly  journals,  all  the 
monthly  magazines,  and  two  quarterlies.  I 
could  not  get  along  with  less.  I  could  n't  if 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON  57 

you  asked  me.  I  never  feel  lonely.  How  can 
I,  being  on  terms  of  intimacy,  as  it  were,  with 
thousands  and  thousands  of  people  ?  There  's 
that  young  woman  out  West.  What  an  enter- 
taining creature  she  is  !  —now  in  Missouri,  now 
in  Indiana,  and  now  in  Minnesota,  always  on 
the  go,  and  all  the  time  shedding  needles  from 
various  parts  of  her  body  as  if  she  really  en- 
joyed it !  Then  there  's  that  versatile  patriarch 
who  walks  hundreds  of  miles  and  saws  thou- 
sands of  feet  of  wood,  before  breakfast,  and 
shows  n;>  signs  of  giving  out.  Then  there  's 
that  remarkable  —  one  may  say  that  historical 
—  colored  woman  who  knew  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin, and  fought  at  the  battle  of  Bunk — no,  it  is 
the  old  negro  man  who  fought  at  Bunker  Hill,  a 
mere  infant,  of  course,  at  that  period.  Really, 
now,  it  is  quite  curious  to  observe  how  that  ven- 
erable female  slave  —  formerly  an  African  prin- 
cess —  is  repeatedly  dying  in  her  hundred  and 
eleventh  year,  and  coming  to  life  again  punctu- 
ally every  six  months  in  the  small-type  para- 
graphs. Are  you  aware,  sir,  that  within  the  last 
twelve  years  no  fewer  than  two  hundred  and 
eighty-seven  of  General  Washington's  colored 
coachmen  have  died  ? " 

For  the  soul  of  me  I  could  not  tell  whether 
this  quaint  little  gentleman  was  chaffing  me  or 
not.  I  laid  down  my  knife  and  fork,  and  stared 
at  him. 


58  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

"  Then  there  are  the  mathematicians !  "  he 
cried  vivaciously,  without  waiting  for  a  reply. 
"  I  take  great  interest  in  them.  Hear  this  ! " 
and  Mr.  Jaff rey  drew  a  newspaper  from  a  pocket 
in  the  tail  of  his  coat,  and  read  as  follows  :  "  // 
has  been  estimated  that  if  all  the  candles  manu- 
factured by  this  eminent  firm  (Stearine  &  Co.) 
were  placed  end  to  end,  they  would  reach  2  and 
%  times  around  the  globe.  Of  course,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Jaff  rey,  folding  up  the  journal  re- 
flectively, "abstruse  calculations  of  this  kind 
are  not,  perhaps,  of  vital  importance,  but  they 
indicate  the  intellectual  activity  of  the  age. 
Seriously,  now,"  he  said,  halting  in  front  of  the 
table,  "  what  with  books  and  papers  and  drives 
about  the  country,  I  do  not  find  the  days  too 
long,  though  I  seldom  see  any  one,  except 
when  I  go  over  to  K for  my  mail.  Exist- 
ence may  be  very  full  to  a  man  who  stands  a 
little  aside  from  the  tumult  and  watches  it  with 
philosophic  eye.  Possibly  he  may  see  more  of 
the  battle  than  those  who  are  in  the  midst  of 
the  action.  Once  I  was  struggling  with  the 
crowd,  as  eager  and  undaunted  as  the  best ; 
perhaps  I  should  have  been  struggling  still. 
Indeed,  I  know  my  life  would  have  been  very 
different  now  if  I  had  married  Mehetabel  —  if 
I  had  married  Mehetabel." 

His  vivacity  was  gone,  an  abrupt  cloud  had 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON  59 

come  over  his  bright  face,  his  figure  seemed  to 
have  collapsed,  the  light  seemed  to  have  faded 
out  of  his  hair.  With  a  shuffling  step,  the 
very  antithesis  of  his  brisk,  elastic  tread,  he 
turned  to  the  door  and  passed  into  the  road. 

"Well,"  I  said  to  myself,  "if  Greenton  had 
forty  thousand  inhabitants,  it  could  n't  turn  out 
a  more  astonishing  old  party  than  that ! " 


II 

THE  CASE  OF   SILAS   JAFFREY 

A  MAN  with  a  passion  for  bric-a-brac  is  always 
stumbling  over  antique  bronzes,  intaglios, 
mosaics,  and  daggers  of  the  time  of  Benvenuto 
Cellini ;  the  bibliophile  finds  creamy  vellum 
folios  and  rare  Alduses  and  Elzevirs  waiting 
for  him  at  unsuspected  bookstalls ;  the  numis- 
matist has  but  to  stretch  forth  his  palm  to  have 
priceless  coins  drop  into  it.  My  own  weakness 
is  odd  people,  and  I  am  constantly  encounter- 
ing them.  It  was  plain  that  I  had  unearthed 
a  couple  of  very  queer  specimens  at  Bay  ley's 
Four-Corners.  I  saw  that  a  fortnight  afforded 
me  too  brief  an  opportunity  to  develop  the 
richness  of  both,  and  I  resolved  to  devote  my 
spare  time  to  Mr.  Jaffrey  alone,  instinctively 
recognizing  in  him  an  unfamiliar  species.  My 
professional  work  in  the  vicinity  of  Greenton 
left  my  evenings  and  occasionally  an  afternoon 
unoccupied ;  these  intervals  I  purposed  to  em- 
ploy in  studying  and  classifying  my  fellow- 
boarder.  It  was  necessary,  as  a  preliminary 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S    SON  61 

step,  to  learn  something  of  his  previous  history, 
and  to  this  end  I  addressed  myself  to  Mr. 
Sewell  that  same  night. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  seem  inquisitive,"  I  said 
to  the  landlord,  as  he  was  fastening  up  the  bar, 
which,  by  the  way,  was  the  salle  a  manger  and 
general  sitting-room  —  "I  do  not  want  to  seem 
inquisitive,  but  your  friend  Mr.  Jaffrey  dropped 
a  remark  this  morning  at  breakfast  which  — 
which  was  not  altogether  clear  to  me." 

"  About  Mehetabel  ? "  asked  Mr.  Sewell 
uneasily. 

"  Yes." 

"  WeU,  I  wish  he  wouldn't !  " 

"He  was  friendly  enough  in  the  course  of 
conversation  to  hint  to  me  that  he  had  not 
married  the  young  woman,  and  seemed  to 
regret  it." 

"  No,  he  did  n't  marry  Mehetabel." 

"  May  I  inquire  why  he  did  n't  marry 
Mehetabel  ? " 

"  Never  asked  her.  Might  have  married  the 
girl  forty  times.  Old  Elkins's  daughter,  over 

at  K She  'd  have  had  him  quick  enough. 

Seven  years,  off  and  on,  he  kept  company  with 
Mehetabel,  and  then  she  died." 

"  And  he  never  asked  her  ?  " 

"  He  shilly-shallied.  Perhaps  he  did  n't  think 
of  it.  When  she  was  dead  and  gone,  then 


62  MISS    MEHETABEL'S   SON 

Silas  was  struck  all  of  a  heap  —  and  that 's  all 
about  it" 

Obviously  Mr.  Sewell  did  not  intend  to  tell 
me  anything  more,  and  obviously  there  was 
more  to  tell.  The  topic  was  plainly  disagreeable 
to  him  for  some  reason  or  other,  and  that  un- 
known reason  of  course  piqued  my  curiosity. 

As  I  was  absent  from  dinner  and  supper  that 
day,  I  did  not  meet  Mr.  Jaffrey  again  until  the 
following  morning  at  breakfast.  He  had  re- 
covered his  bird-like  manner,  and  was  full  of  a 
mysterious  assassination  that  had  just  taken 
place  in  New  York,  all  the  thrilling  details  of 
which  were  at  his  fingers'  ends.  It  was  at 
once  comical  and  sad  to  see  this  harmless  old 
gentleman  with  his  nai've,  benevolent  counte- 
nance, and  his  thin  hair  flaming  up  in  a  semi- 
circle, like  the  footlights  at  a  theatre,  revelling 
in  the  intricacies  of  the  unmentionable  deed. 

"  You  come  up  to  my  room  to-night,"  he 
cried,  with  horrid  glee,  "  and  I  '11  give  you  my 
theory  of  the  murder.  I  '11  make  it  as  clear  as 
day  to  you  that  it  was  the  detective  himself 
who  fired  the  three  pistol-shots." 

It  was  not  so  much  the  desire  to  have  this 
point  elucidated  as  to  make  a  closer  study  of 
Mr.  Jaffrey  that  led  me  to  accept  his  invitation. 
Mr.  Jaffrey 's  bedroom  was  in  an  L  of  the  build- 
ing, and  was  in  no  way  noticeable  except  for 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S    SON  63 

the  numerous  files  of  newspapers  neatly  ar- 
ranged against  the  blank  spaces  of  the  walls, 
and  a  huge  pile  of  old  magazines  which  stood  in 
one  corner,  reaching  nearly  up  to  the  ceiling, 
and  threatening  to  topple  over  each  instant, 
like  the  leaning  tower  at  Pisa.  There  were 
green  paper  shades  at  the  windows,  some  faded 
chintz  valances  about  the  bed,  and  two  or  three 
easy-chairs  covered  with  chintz.  On  a  black- 
walnut  shelf  between  the  windows  lay  a  choice 
collection  of  meerschaum  and  brier- wood  pipes. 

Filling  one  of  the  chocolate-colored  bowls  for 
me  and  another  for  himself,  Mr.  Jaffrey  began 
prattling ;  but  not  about  the  murder,  which 
appeared  to  have  flown  out  of  his  mind.  In 
fact,  I  do  not  remember  that  the  topic  was  even 
touched  upon,  either  then  or  afterwards. 

"  Cosey  nest  this,"  said  Mr.  Jaffrey,  glancing 
complacently  over  the  apartment.  "What  is 
more  cheerful,  now,  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  than 
an  open  wood-fire  ?  Do  you  hear  those  little 
chirps  and  twitters  coming  out  of  that  piece  of 
apple -wood?  Those  are  the  ghosts  of  the 
robins  and  bluebirds  that  sang  upon  the  bough 
when  it  was  in  blossom  last  spring.  In  summer 
whole  flocks  of  them  come  fluttering  about  the 
fruit-trees  under  the  window :  so  I  have  singing 
birds  all  the  year  round.  I  take  it  very  easy 
here,  I  can  tell  you,  summer  and  winter.  Not 


64  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

much  society.  Tobias  is  not,  perhaps,  what 
one  would  term  a  great  intellectual  force,  but 
he  means  well.  He  's  a  realist  —  believes  in 
coming  down  to  what  he  calls  '  the  hard  pan  ; ' 
but  his  heart  is  in  the  right  place,  and  he's 
very  kind  to  me.  The  wisest  thing  I  ever  did 
in  my  life  was  to  sell  out  my  grain  business 

over  at  K ,  thirteen  years  ago,  and  settle 

down  at  the  Corners.  When  a  man  has  made  a 
competency,  what  does  he  want  more  ?  Besides, 
at  that  time  an  event  occurred  which  destroyed 
any  ambition  I  may  have  had.  Mehetabel 
died." 

"  The  lady  you  were  engaged  to  ? " 

"  N-o,  not  precisely  engaged.  I  think  it  was 
quite  understood  between  us,  though  nothing 
had  been  said  on  the  subject.  Typhoid,"  added 
Mr.  Jaffrey  in  a  low  voice. 

For  several  minutes  he  smoked  in  silence,  a 
vague,  troubled  look  playing  over  his  counte- 
nance. Presently  this  passed  away,  and  he 
fixed  his  gray  eyes  speculatively  upon  my  face. 

"  If  I  had  married  Mehetabel,"  said  Mr.  Jaf- 
frey slowly,  and  then  he  hesitated.  I  blew  a 
ring  of  smoke  into  the  air,  and,  resting  my 
pipe  on  my  knee,  dropped  into  an  attitude  of 
attention.  "  If  I  had  married  Mehetabel,  you 
know,  we  should  have  had  —  ahem  !  —  a  f am- 

ay." 


MISS    MEHETABEL'S   SON  65 

"  Very  likely,"  I  assented,  vastly  amused  at 
this  unexpected  turn. 

"  A  Boy !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Jaffrey  explo- 
sively. 

"  By  all  means,  certainly,  a  son." 

"  Great  trouble  about  naming  the  boy.  Me- 
hetabel's  family  want  him  named  Elkanah 
Elkins,  after  her  grandfather ;  I  want  him 
named  Andrew  Jackson.  We  compromise  by 
christening  him  Elkanah  Elkins  Andrew  Jack- 
son Jaffrey.  Rather  a  long  name  for  such  a 
short  little  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Jaffrey  musingly. 

"Andy  is  n't  a  bad  nickname,"  I  suggested. 

"  Not  at  all.  We  call  him  Andy,  in  the  fam- 
ily. Somewhat  fractious  at  first  —  colic  and 
things.  I  suppose  it  is  right,  or  it  would  n't  be 
so ;  but  the  usefulness  of  measles,  mumps, 
croup,  whooping-cough,  scarlatina,  and  fits  is  not 
clear  to  the  parental  eye.  I  wish  Andy  would 
be  a  model  infant,  and  dodge  the  whole  lot." 

This  supposititious  child,  born  within  the  last 
few  minutes,  was  plainly  assuming  the  propor- 
tions of  a  reality  to  Mr.  Jaffrey.  I  began  to 
feel  a  little  uncomfortable.  I  am,  as  I  have 
said,  a  civil  engineer,  and  it  is  not  strictly  in  my 
line  to  assist  at  the  births  of  infants,  imaginary 
or  otherwise.  I  pulled  away  vigorously  at  the 
pipe,  and  said  nothing. 

"  What  large  blue  eyes  he  has,"  resumed  Mr. 


66  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

Jaffrey,  after  a  pause  ;  "just  like  Hetty's ;  and 
the  fair  hair,  too,  like  hers.  How  oddly  certain 
distinctive  features  are  handed  down  in  fami- 
lies !  Sometimes  a  mouth,  sometimes  a  turn  of 

the  eyebrow.  Wicked  little  boys  over  at  K 

have  now  and  then  derisively  advised  me  to 
follow  my  nose.  It  would  be  an  interesting 
thing  to  do.  I  should  find  my  nose  flying  about 
the  world,  turning  up  unexpectedly  here  and 
there,  dodging  this  branch  of  the  family  and 
reappearing  in  that,  now  jumping  over  one 
great-grandchild  to  fasten  itself  upon  another, 
and  never  losing  its  individuality.  Look  at 
Andy.  There 's  Elkanah  Elkins's  chin  to  the 
Hfe.  Andy's  chin  is  probably  older  than  the 
Pyramids.  Poor  little  thing,"  he  cried,  with 
sudden  indescribable  tenderness,  "  to  lose  his 
mother  so  early ! "  And  Mr.  Jaffrey's  head 
sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  his  shoulders  slanted 
forward,  as  if  he  were  actually  bending  over 
the  cradle  of  the  child.  The  whole  gesture 
and  attitude  was  so  natural  that  it  startled  me. 
The  pipe  slipped  from  my  fingers  and  fell  to 
the  floor. 

"  Hush  !  "  whispered  Mr.  Jaffrey,  with  a  dep- 
recating motion  of  his  hand.  "  Andy 's  asleep  !  " 

He  rose  softly  from  the  chair  and,  walking 
across  the  room  on  tiptoe,  drew  down  the  shade 
at  the  window  through  which  the  moonlight  was 


MISS    MEHETABEL'S    SON  67 

streaming.  Then  he  returned  to  his  seat,  and 
remained  gazing  with  half-closed  eyes  into  the 
dropping  embers. 

I  refilled  my  pipe  and  smoked  in  profound 
silence,  wondering  what  would  come  next.  But 
nothing  came  next.  Mr.  Jaffrey  had  fallen  into 
so  brown  a  study  that,  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
afterwards,  when  I  wished  him  good-night  and 
withdrew,  I  do  not  think  he  noticed  my  depar- 
ture. 

I  am  not  what  is  called  a  man  of  imagina- 
tion ;  it  is  my  habit  to  exclude  most  things  not 
capable  of  mathematical  demonstration  ;  but  I 
am  not  without  a  certain  psychological  insight, 
and  I  think  I  understood  Mr.  Jaffrey' s  case.  I 
could  easily  understand  how  a  man  with  an 
unhealthy,  sensitive  nature,  overwhelmed  by 
sudden  calamity,  might  take  refuge  in  some 
forlorn  place  like  this  old  tavern,  and  dream 
his  life  away.  To  such  a  man  —  brooding  for- 
ever on  what  might  have  been  and  dwelling 
wholly  in  the  realm  of  his  fancies  —  the  actual 
world  might  indeed  become  as  a  dream,  and 
nothing  seem  real  but  his  illusions.  I  dare  say 
that  thirteen  years  of  Bayley's  Four-Corners 
would  have  its  effect  upon  me  ;  though  instead 
of  conjuring  up  golden-haired  children  of  the 
Madonna,  I  should  probably  see  gnomes  and 
kobolds,  and  goblins  engaged  in  hoisting  false 


68  MISS    MEHETABEL'S   SON 

signals  and  misplacing  switches  for  midnight 
express  trains. 

"No  doubt,"  I  said  to  myself  that  night,  as 
I  lay  in  bed,  thinking  over  the  matter,  "this 
once  possible  but  new  impossible  child  is  a 
great  comfort  to  the  old  gentleman  —  a  greater 
comfort,  perhaps,  than  a  real  son  would  be. 
May  be  Andy  will  vanish  with  the  shades  and 
mists  of  night,  he  is  such  an  unsubstantial  in- 
fant ;  but  if  he  does  not,  and  Mr.  Jaffrey  finds 
pleasure  in  talking  to  me  about  his  son,  I  shall 
humor  the  old  fellow.  It  would  n't  be  a  Chris- 
tian act  to  knock  over  his  harmless  fancy." 

I  was  very  impatient  to  see  if  Mr.  Jaffrey's 
illusion  would  stand  the  test  of  daylight.  It 
did.  Elkanah  Elkins  Andrew  Jackson  Jaffrey 
was,  so  to  speak,  alive  and  kicking  the  next 
morning.  On  taking  his  seat  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  Mr.  Jaffrey  whispered  to  me  that  Andy 
had  had  a  comfortable  night. 

"Silas!"  said  Mr.  Sewell  sharply,  "what 
are  you  whispering  about  ? " 

Mr.  Sewell  was  in  an  ill-humor ;  perhaps  he 
was  jealous  because  I  had  passed  the  evening 
in  Mr.  Jaffrey's  room ;  but  surely  Mr.  Sewell 
could  not  expect  his  boarders  to  go  to  bed  at 
eight  o'clock  every  night,  as  he  did.  From 
time  to  time  during  the  meal  Mr.  Sewell  re- 
garded me  unkindly  out  of  the  corner  of  his 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON  69 

eye,  and  in  helping  me  to  the  parsnips  he  pon- 
iarded them  with  quite  a  suggestive  air.  All 
this,  however,  did  not  prevent  me  from  repair- 
ing to  the  door  of  Mr.  Jaffrey's  snuggery  when 
night  came. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Jaffrey,  how 's  Andy  this  even- 
ing?" 

"  Got  a  tooth !  "  cried  Mr.  Jaffrey  vivaciously. 

"No!" 

"Yes,  he  has!  Just  through.  Gave  the 
nurse  a  silver  dollar.  Standing  reward  for  first 
tooth." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  express 
surprise  that  an  infant  a  day  old  should  cut  a 
tooth,  when  I  suddenly  recollected  that  Rich- 
ard III.  was  born  with  teeth.  Feeling  myself 
to  be  on  unfamiliar  ground,  I  suppressed  my 
criticism.  It  was  well  I  did  so,  for  in  the  next 
breath  I  was  advised  that  half  a  year  had 
elapsed  since  the  previous  evening. 

"  Andy  's  had  a  hard  six  months  of  it,"  said 
Mr.  Jaffrey,  with  the  well-known  narrative  air 
of  fathers.  "  We  've  brought  him  up  by  hand. 
His  grandfather,  by  the  way,  was  brought  up 
by  the  bottle  " — and  brought  down  by  it,  too, 
I  added  mentally,  recalling  Mr.  Sewell's  account 
of  the  old  gentleman's  tragic  end. 

Mr.  Jaffrey  then  went  on  to  give  me  a  his- 
tory of  Andy's  first  six  months,  omitting  no 


70  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

detail  however  insignificant  or  irrelevant.  This 
history  I  would  in  turn  inflict  upon  the  reader, 
if  I  were  only  certain  that  he  is  one  of  those 
dreadful  parents  who,  under  the  aegis  of  friend- 
ship, bore  you  at  a  street-corner  with  that  re- 
markable thing  which  Freddy  said  the  other 
day,  and  insist  on  singing  to  you,  at  an  evening 
party,  the  Iliad  of  Tommy's  woes. 

But  to  inflict  such  matters  upon  the  unmar- 
ried reader  would  be  an  act  of  wanton  cruelty. 
So  I  pass  over  that  part  of  Andy's  biography, 
and,  for  the  same  reason,  make  no  record  of 
the  next  four  or  five  interviews  I  had  with  Mr. 
Jaffrey.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  state  that  Andy 
glided  from  extreme  infancy  to  early  youth  with 
astonishing  celerity  —  at  the  rate  of  one  year 
per  night,  if  I  remember  correctly ;  and  —  must 
I  confess  it  ?  —  before  the  week  came  to  an 
end,  this  invisible  hobgoblin  of  a  boy  was  only 
little  less  of  a  reality  to  me  than  to  Mr.  Jaffrey. 

At  first  I  had  lent  myself  to  the  old  dream- 
er's whim  with  a  keen  perception  of  the  humor 
of  the  thing ;  but  by  and  by  I  found  that  I  was 
talking  and  thinking  of  Miss  Mehetabel's  son 
as  though  he  were  a  veritable  personage.  Mr. 
Jaffrey  spoke  of  the  child  with  such  an  air  of 
conviction  !  —  as  if  Andy  were  playing  among 
his  toys  in  the  next  room,  or  making  mud-pies 
down  in  the  yard.  In  these  conversations,  it 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S    SON  71 

should  be  observed,  the  child  was  never  sup- 
posed  to  be  present,  except  on  that  single  oc- 
casion when  Mr.  Jaffrey  leaned  over  the  cradle. 
After  one  of  our  stances  I  would  lie  awake 
until  the  small  hours,  thinking  of  the  boy,  and 
then  fall  asleep  only  to  have  indigestible  dreams 
about  him.  Through  the  day,  and  sometimes 
in  the  midst  of  complicated  calculations,  I  would 
catch  myself  wondering  what  Andy  was  up  to 
now !  There  was  no  shaking  him  off ;  he  be- 
came an  inseparable  nightmare  to  me  ;  and  I 
felt  that  if  I  remained  much  longer  at  Bayley's 
Four-Corners  I  should  turn  into  just  such  an- 
other bald-headed,  mild-eyed  visionary  as  Silas 
Jaffrey. 

Then  tne  tavern  was  a  grewsome  old  shell 
anyway,  full  of  unaccountable  noises  after  dark 
—  rustlings  of  garments  along  unfrequented 
passages,  and  stealthy  footfalls  in  unoccupied 
chambers  overhead.  I  never  knew  of  an  old 
house  without  these  mysterious  noises.  Next 
to  my  bedroom  was  a  musty,  dismantled  apart- 
ment, in  one  corner  of  which,  leaning  against 
the  wainscot,  was  a  crippled  mangle,  with  its 
iron  crank  tilted  in  the  air  like  the  elbow  of  the 
late  Mr.  Clem  Jaffrey.  Sometimes, 

"  In  the  dead  vast  and  middle  of  the  night," 

I  used  to  hear  sounds  as  if  some  one  were  turn- 


72  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

ing  that  rusty  crank  on  the  sly.  This  occurred 
only  on  particularly  cold  nights,  and  I  conceived 
the  uncomfortable  idea  that  it  was  the  thin 
family  ghosts,  from  the  neglected  graveyard  in 
the  cornfield,  keeping  themselves  warm  by  run- 
ning one  another  through  the  mangle.  There 
was  a  haunted  air  about  the  whole  place  that 
made  it  easy  for  me  to  believe  in  the  existence 
of  a  phantasm  like  Miss  Mehetabel's  son,  who, 
after  all,  was  less  unearthly  than  Mr.  Jaffrey 
himself,  and  seemed  more  properly  an  inhabi- 
tant of  this  globe  than  the  toothless  ogre  who 
kept  the  inn,  not  to  mention  the  silent  Witch 
of  Endor  that  cooked  our  meals  for  us  over  the 
bar-room  fire. 

In  spite  of  the  scowls  and  winks  bestowed 
upon  me  by  Mr.  Sewell,  who  let  slip  no  oppor- 
tunity to  testify  his  disapprobation  of  the  inti- 
macy, Mr.  Jaffrey  and  I  spent  all  our  evenings 
together  —  those  long  autumnal  evenings, 
through  the  length  of  which  he  talked  about 
the  boy,  laying  out  his  path  in  life  and  hedging 
the  path  with  roses.  He  should  be  sent  to  the 
High  School  at  Portsmouth,  and  then  to  college ; 
he  should  be  educated  like  a  gentleman,  Andy. 

"When  the  old  man  dies,"  remarked  Mr. 
Jaffrey  one  night,  rubbing  his  hands  gleefully, 
as  if  it  were  a  great  joke,  "Andy  will  find  that 
the  old  man  has  left  him  a  pretty  plum." 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON  73 

"  What  do  you  think  of  having  Andy  enter 
West  Point,  when  he's  old  enough  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Jaffrey  on  another  occasion.  "He  needn't 
necessarily  go  into  the  army  when  he  graduates ; 
he  can  become  a  civil  engineer." 

This  was  a  stroke  of  flattery  so  delicate  and 
indirect  that  I  could  accept  it  without  immod- 
esty. 

There  had  lately  sprung  up  on  the  corner  of 
Mr.  Jaffrey's  bureau  a  small  tin  house,  Gothic 
in  architecture  and  pink  in  color,  with  a  slit  in 
the  roof,  and  the  word  BANK  painted  on  one 
facade.  Several  times  in  the  course  of  an 
evening  Mr.  Jaffrey  would  rise  from  his  chair 
without  interrupting  the  conversation,  and 
gravely  drop  a  nickel  into  the  scuttle  of  the 
bank.  It  was  pleasant  to  observe  the  solemnity 
of  his  countenance  as  he  approached  the  edifice, 
and  the  air  of  triumph  with  which  he  resumed 
his  seat  by  the  fireplace.  One  night  I  missed 
the  tin  bank.  It  had  disappeared,  deposits 
and  all,  like  a  real  bank.  Evidently  there  had 
been  a  defalcation  on  rather  a  large  scale.  I 
strongly  suspected  that  Mr.  Sewell  was  at  the 
bottom  of  it,  but  my  suspicion  was  not  shared 
by  Mr.  Jaffrey,  who,  remarking  my  glance  at 
the  bureau,  became  suddenly  depressed.  "  I  'm 
afraid,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  failed  to  instil 
into  Andrew  those  principles  of  integrity  which 


74  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

—  which" — and  the  old  gentleman  quite 
broke  down. 

Andy  was  now  eight  or  nine  years  old,  and 
for  some  time  past,  if  the  truth  must  be  told, 
had  given  Mr.  Jaffrey  no  inconsiderable  trouble ; 
what  with  his  impishness  and  his  illnesses,  the 
boy  led  the  pair  of  us  a  lively  dance.  I  shall 
not  soon  forget  the  anxiety  of  Mr.  Jaffrey  the 
night  Andy  had  the  scarlet -fever  —  an  anxiety 
which  so  infected  me  that  I  actually  returned 
to  the  tavern  the  following  afternoon  earlier 
than  usual,  dreading  to  hear  that  the  little 
spectre  was  dead,  and  greatly  relieved  on  meet- 
ing Mr.  Jaffrey  at  the  door-step  with  his  face 
wreathed  in  smiles.  When  I  spoke  to  him  of 
Andy,  I  was  made  aware  that  I  was  inquiring 
into  a  case  of  scarlet-fever  that  had  occurred 
the  year  before ! 

It  was  at  this  time,  towards  the  end  of  my 
second  week  at  Greenton,  that  I  noticed  what 
was  probably  not  a  new  trait  —  Mr.  Jeffrey's 
curious  sensitiveness  to  atmospherical  changes. 
He  was  as  sensitive  as  a  barometer.  The 
approach  of  a  storm  sent  his  mercury  down 
instantly.  When  the  weather  was  fair  he  was 
hopeful  and  sunny,  and  Andy's  prospects  were 
brilliant.  When  the  weather  was  overcast  and 
threatening  he  grew  restless  and  despondent, 
and  was  afraid  that  the  boy  was  not  going  to 
turn  out  well. 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON  75 

On  the  Saturday  previous  to  my  departure, 
which  had  been  fixed  for  Monday,  it  rained 
heavily  all  the  afternoon,  and  that  night  Mr. 
Jaffrey  was  in  an  unusually  excitable  and  un- 
happy frame  of  mind.  His  mercury  was  very 
low  indeed. 

"  That  boy  is  going  to  the  dogs  just  as  fast  as 
he  can  go,"  said  Mr.  Jaffrey,  with  a  woful  face. 
"  I  can't  do  anything  with  him." 

"He'll  come  out  all  right,  Mr.  Jaffrey. 
Boys  will  be  boys.  I  would  not  give  a  snap  for 
a  lad  without  animal  spirits." 

"  But  animal  spirits,"  said  Mr.  Jaffrey  sen- 
tentiously,  "shouldn't  saw  off  the  legs  of  the 
piano  in  Tobias's  best  parlor.  I  don't  know 
what  Tobias  will  say  when  he  finds  it  out." 

"  What !  has  Andy  sawed  off  the  legs  of  the 
old  spinet  ?"  I  returned,  laughing. 

"Worse  than  that." 

"  Played  upon  it,  then  ! " 

"  No,  sir.     He  has  lied  to  me  !  " 

"  I  can't  believe  that  of  Andy." 

"Lied  to  me,  sir,"  repeated  Mr.  Jaffrey 
severely.  "He  pledged  me  his  word  of  honor 
that  he  would  give  over  his  climbing.  The 
way  that  boy  climbs  sends  a  chill  down  my 
spine.  This  morning,  notwithstanding  his 
solemn  promise,  he  shinned  up  the  lightning- 
rod  attached  to  the  extension,  and  sat  astride 


76  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

the  ridge-pole.  I  saw  him,  and  he  denied  it ! 
When  a  boy  you  have  caressed  and  indulged 
and  lavished  pocket-money  on  lies  to  you  and 
will  climb,  then  there's  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  He 's  a  lost  child." 

"  You  take  too  dark  a  view  of  it,  Mr.  Jaff rey. 
Training  and  education  are  bound  to  tell  in  the 
end,  and  he  has  been  well  brought  up." 

"  But  I  did  n't  bring  him  up  on  a  lightning- 
rod,  did  I  ?  If  he  is  ever  going  to  know  how  to 
behave,  he  ought  to  know  now.  To-morrow  he 
will  be  eleven  years  old." 

The  reflection  came  to  me  that  if  Andy  had 
not  been  brought  up  by  the  rod,  he  had  cer- 
tainly been  brought  up  by  the  lightning.  He 
was  eleven  years  old  in  two  weeks  ! 

I  essayed,  with  that  perspicacious  wisdom 
which  seems  to  be  the  peculiar  property  of 
bachelors  and  elderly  maiden  ladies,  to  tran- 
quillize Mr.  Jaffrey's  mind,  and  to  give  him 
some  practical  hints  on  the  management  of 
youth. 

"  Spank  him,"  I  suggested  at  last. 

"I  will !  "  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"  And  you  'd  better  do  it  at  once !  "  I  added, 
as  it  flashed  upon  me  that  in  six  months  Andy 
would  be  a  hundred  and  forty-three  years  old  ! 
—  an  age  at  which  parental  discipline  would 
have  to  be  relaxed. 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S    SON  77 

The  next  morning,  Sunday,  the  rain  came 
down  as  if  determined  to  drive  the  quicksilver 
entirely  out  of  my  poor  friend.  Mr.  Jaffrey 
sat  bolt  upright  at  the  breakfast -table,  looking 
as  woe-begone  as  a  bust  of  Dante,  and  retired 
to  his  chamber  the  moment  the  meal  was  fin- 
ished. As  the  day  advanced,  the  wind  veered 
round  to  the  northeast,  and  settled  itself  down 
to  work.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  think,  and  I 
tried  not  to  think,  what  Mr.  Jaffrey' s  condition 
would  be  if  the  weather  did  not  mend  its  man- 
ners by  noon  ;  but  so  far  from  clearing  off  at 
noon,  the  storm  increased  in  violence,  and  as 
night  set  in  the  wind  whistled  in  a  spiteful  fal- 
setto key,  and  the  rain  lashed  the  old  tavern  as 
if  it  were  a  balky  horse  that  refused  to  move  on. 
The  windows  rattled  in  the  worm-eaten  frames, 
and  the  doors  of  remote  rooms,  where  nobody 
ever  went,  slammed  to  in  the  maddest  way. 
Now  and  then  the  tornado,  sweeping  down  the 
side  of  Mount  Agamenticus,  bowled  across  the 
open  country,  and  struck  the  ancient  hostelry 
point-blank. 

Mr.  Jaffrey  did  not  appear  at  supper.  I 
knew  that  he  was  expecting  me  to  come  to  his 
room  as  usual,  and  I  turned  over  in  my  mind  a 
dozen  plans  to  evade  seeing  him  that  night. 
The  landlord  sat  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
chimney-place,  with  his  eye  upon  me.  I  fancy 


78  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

he  was  aware  of  the  effect  of  this  storm  on  his 
other  boarder,  for  at  intervals,  as  the  wind 
hurled  itself  against  the  exposed  gable,  threaten- 
ing to  burst  in  the  windows,  Mr.  Sewell  tipped 
me  an  atrocious  wink,  and  displayed  his  gums 
in  a  way  he  had  not  done  since  the  morning 
after  my  arrival  at  Greenton.  I  wondered  if 
he  suspected  anything  about  Andy.  There 
had  been  odd  times  during  the  past  week  when 
I  felt  convinced  that  the  existence  of  Miss 
Mehetabel's  son  was  no  secret  to  Mr.  Sewell. 

In  deference  to  the  gale,  the  landlord  sat  up 
half  an  hour  later  than  was  his  custom.  At 
half  past  eight  he  went  to  bed,  remarking  that 
he  thought  the  old  pile  would  stand  till  morn- 
ing. 

He  had  been  absent  only  a  few  minutes 
when  I  heard  a  rustling  at  the  door.  I  looked 
up,  and  beheld  Mr.  Jaffrey  standing  on  the 
threshold,  with  his  dress  in  disorder,  his  scant 
hair  flying,  and  the  wildest  expression  on  his 
face. 

"He  's  gone !  "  cried  Mr.  Jaffrey. 

"  Who  ?   Sewell  ?   Yes,  he  just  went  to  bed." 

"  No,  not  Tobias  —  the  boy !  " 

"What,  run  away?" 

«  No  —  he  is  dead  !  He  has  fallen  from  a 
step-ladder  in  the  red  chamber  and  broken  his 
neck ! " 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S    SON  79 

Mr.  Jaffrey  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  ges- 
ture of  despair,  and  disappeared.  I  followed 
him  through  the  hall,  saw  him  go  into  his  own 
apartment,  and  heard  the  bolt  of  the  door  drawn 
to.  Then  I  returned  to  the  bar-room,  and  sat 
for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  ruddy  glow  of  the 
fire,  brooding  over  the  strange  experience  of  the 
last  fortnight. 

On  my  way  to  bed  I  paused  at  Mr.  Jaffrey's 
door,  and,  in  a  lull  of  the  storm,  the  measured 
respiration  within  told  me  that  the  old  gentle- 
man was  sleeping  peacefully. 

Slumber  was  coy  with  me  that  night.  I  lay 
listening  to  the  soughing  of  the  wind,  and  think- 
ing of  Mr.  Jaffrey's  illusion.  It  had  amused  me 
at  first  with  its  grotesqueness  ;  but  now  the 
poor  little  phantom  was  dead,  I  was  conscious 
that  there  had  been  something  pathetic  in  it  all 
along.  Shortly  after  midnight  the  wind  sunk 
down,  coming  and  going  fainter  and  fainter, 
floating  around  the  eaves  of  the  tavern  with  an 
undulating,  murmurous  sound,  as  if  it  were  turn- 
ing itself  into  soft  wings  to  bear  away  the  ghost 
of  a  little  child. 

Perhaps  nothing  that  happened  during  my 
stay  at  Bayley's  Four-Corners  took  me  so  com- 
pletely by  surprise  as  Mr.  Jaffrey's  radiant 
countenance  the  next  morning.  The  morning 
itself  was  not  fresher  or  sunnier.  His  round 


So  MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 

face  literally  shone  with  geniality  and  happi> 
ness.  His  eyes  twinkled  like  diamonds,  and 
the  magnetic  light  of  his  hair  was  turned  on 
full.  He  came  into  my  room  while  I  was  pack- 
ing my  valise.  He  chirped,  and  prattled,  and 
carolled,  and  was  sorry  I  was  going  away  — 
but  never  a  word  about  Andy.  However,  the 
boy  had  probably  been  dead  several  years  then  ! 

The  open  wagon  that  was  to  carry  me  to  the 
station  stood  at  the  door ;  Mr.  Sewell  was  pla- 
cing my  case  of  instruments  under  the  seat,  and 
Mr.  Jaffrey  had  gone  up  to  his  room  to  get  me 
a  certain  newspaper  containing  an  account  of  a 
remarkable  shipwreck  on  the  Auckland  Islands. 
I  took  the  opportunity  to  thank  Mr.  Sewell  for 
his  courtesies  to  me,  and  to  express  my  regret 
at  leaving  him  and  Mr.  Jaffrey. 

"  I  have  become  very  much  attached  to  Mr. 
Jaffrey,"  I  said;  "he  is  a  most  interesting  per- 
son ;  but  that  hypothetical  boy  of  his,  that  son 
of  Miss  Mehetabel's  "  — 

"  Yes,  I  know ! "  interrupted  Mr.  Sewell 
testily.  "  Fell  off  a  step-ladder  and  broke  his 
dratted  neck.  Eleven  year  old,  was  n't  he  ? 
Always  does,  jest  at  that  point.  Next  week 
Silas  will  begin  the  whole  thing  over  again,  if 
he  can  get  anybody  to  listen  to  him." 

"  I  see.  Our  amiable  friend  is  a  little  queer 
on  that  subject." 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON  81 

Mr.  Sewell  glanced  cautiously  over  his 
shoulder,  and,  tapping  himself  significantly  on 
the  forehead,  said  in  a  low  voice — 

"  Room  To  Let  —  Unfurnished !  " 


A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY 


IT  was  close  upon  eleven  o'clock  when  I 
stepped  out  of  the  rear  vestibule  of  the  Boston 
Theatre,  and,  passing  through  the  narrow 
court  that  leads  to  West  Street,  struck  across 
the  Common  diagonally.  Indeed,  as  I  set  foot 
on  the  Tremont  Street  Mall,  I  heard  the  Old 
South  drowsily  sounding  the  hour. 

It  was  a  tranquil  June  night,  with  no  moon, 
but  clusters  of  sensitive  stars  that  seemed  to 
shiver  with  cold  as  the  wind  swept  by  them  ; 
for  perhaps  there  was  a  swift  current  of  air  up 
there  in  the  zenith.  However,  not  a  leaf 
stirred  on  the  Common ;  the  foliage  hung 
black  and  massive,  as  if  cut  in  bronze ;  even 
the  gaslights  appeared  to  be  infected  by  the 
prevailing  calm,  burning  steadily  behind  their 
glass  screens  and  turning  the  neighboring 
leaves  into  the  tenderest  emerald.  Here  and 
there,  in  the  sombre  row  of  houses  stretching 
along  Beacon  Street,  an  illuminated  window 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY  83 

gilded  a  few  square  feet  of  darkness  ;  and  now 
and  then  a  footfall  sounded  on  a  distant  pave- 
ment. The  pulse  of  the  city  throbbed  lan- 
guidly. 

The  lights  far  and  near,  the  fantastic  shadows 
of  the  elms  and  maples,  the  gathering  dew,  the 
elusive  odor  of  new  grass,  and  that  peculiar 
hush  which  belongs  only  to  midnight  —  as  if 
Time  had  paused  in  his  flight  and  were  holding 
his  breath  —  gave  to  the  place,  so  familiar  to 
me  by  day,  an  air  of  indescribable  strangeness 
and  remoteness.  The  vast,  deserted  park  had 
lost  all  its  wonted  outlines  ;  I  walked  doubtfully 
on  the  flagstones  which  I  had  many  a  time 
helped  to  wear  smooth  ;  I  seemed  to  be  wander- 
ing in  some  lonely  unknown  garden  across  the 
seas  —  in  that  old  garden  in  Verona  where 
Shakespeare's  ill-starred  lovers  met  and  parted. 
The  white  granite  fa$ade  over  yonder — the 
Somerset  Club  —  might  well  have  been  the 
house  of  Capulet  :  there  was  the  clambering 
vine  reaching  up  like  a  pliant  silken  ladder  ; 
there,  near  by,  was  the  low-hung  balcony,  want- 
ing only  the  slight  girlish  figure  —  immortal 
shape  of  fire  and  dew  !  —  to  make  the  illusion 
perfect. 

I  do  not  know  what  suggested  it;  perhaps 
it  was  something  in  the  play  I  had  just  wit- 
nessed —  it  is  not  always  easy  to  put  one's  fin- 


84  A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY 

ger  on  the  invisible  electric  thread  that  runs 
from  thought  to  thought  —  but  as  I  sauntered 
on  I  fell  to  thinking  of  the  ill-assorted  mar- 
riages I  had  known.  Suddenly  there  hurried 
along  the  gravelled  path  which  crossed  mine 
obliquely  a  half-indistinguishable  throng  of  pa- 
thetic men  and  women  :  two  by  two  they  filed 
before  me,  each  becoming  startlingly  distinct 
for  an  instant  as  they  passed  —  some  with 
tears,  some  with  hollow  smiles,  and  some  with 
firm-set  lips,  bearing  their  fetters  with  them. 
There  was  little  Alice  chained  to  old  Bowlsby ; 
there  was  Lucille,  "a  daughter  of  the  gods, 
divinely  tall,"  linked  forever  to  the  dwarf  Per- 
rywinkle  ;  there  was  my  friend  Porphyro,  the 
poet,  with  his  delicate  genius  shrivelled  in  the 
glare  of  the  youngest  Miss  Lucifer's  eyes; 
there  they  were  Beauty  and  the  Beast,  Pride 
and  Humility,  Bluebeard  and  Fatima,  Prose 
and  Poetry,  Riches  and  Poverty,  Youth  and 
Crabbed  Age  —  O,  sorrowful  procession  !  All 
so  wretched,  when  perhaps  all  might  have 
been  so  happy  if  they  had  only  paired  differ- 
ently ! 

I  halted  a  moment  to  let  the  weird  shapes 
drift  by.  As  the  last  of  the  train  melted  into 
the  darkness,  my  vagabond  fancy  went  wander- 
ing back  to  the  theatre  and  the  play  I  had  seen 
—  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Taking  a  lighter  tint, 


A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  85 

but  still  of  the  same  sober  color,  my  reflections 
continued. 

What  a  different  kind  of  woman  Juliet  would 
have  been  if  she  had  not  fallen  in  love  with 
Romeo,  but  had  bestowed  her  affection  on  some 
thoughtful  and  stately  signior  —  on  one  of  the 
Delia  Scalas,  for  example  !  What  Juliet  needed 
was  a  firm  and  gentle  hand  to  tame  her  high 
spirit  without  breaking  a  pinion.  She  was  a 
little  too  —  vivacious,  you  might  say  —  "  gush- 
ing "  would  perhaps  be  the  word  if  you  were 
speaking  of  a  modern  maiden  with  so  exuberant 
a  disposition  as  Juliet's.  She  was  too  romantic, 
too  blossomy,  too  impetuous,  too  wilful ;  old 
Capulet  had  brought  her  up  injudiciously,  and 
Lady  Capulet  was  a  nonentity.  Yet  in  spite  of 
faults  of  training  and  some  slight  inherent  flaws 
of  character,  Juliet  was  a  superb  creature ; 
there  was  a  fascinating  dash  in  her  frankness  ; 
her  modesty  and  daring  were  as  happy  rhymes 
as  ever  touched  lips  in  a  love-poem.  But  her 
impulses  required  curbing  ;  her  heart  made  too 
many  beats  to  the  minute.  It  was  an  evil 
destiny  that  flung  in  the  path  of  so  rich  and 
passionate  a  nature  a  fire-brand  like  Romeo. 
Even  if  no  family  feud  had  existed,  the  match 
would  not  have  been  a  wise  one.  As  it  was, 
the  well-known  result  was  inevitable.  What 
could  come  of  it  but  clandestine  meetings, 


86  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY 

secret  marriage,  flight,  despair,  poison,  and  the 
Tomb  of  the  Capulets  ? 

I  had  left  the  park  behind,  by  this,  and  had 
entered  a  thoroughfare  where  the  street-lamps 
were  closer  together ;  but  the  gloom  of  the 
trees  seemed  still  to  be  overhanging  me.  The 
fact  is,  the  tragedy  had  laid  a  black  finger  on 
my  imagination.  I  wished  that  the  play  had 
ended  a  trifle  more  cheerfully.  I  wished  — 
possibly  because  I  see  enough  tragedy  all 
around  me  without  going  to  the  theatre  for  it, 
or  possibly  it  was  because  the  lady  who  enacted 
the  leading  part  was  a  remarkably  clean-cut 
little  person,  with  a  golden  sweep  of  eyelashes 
—  I  wished  that  Juliet  could  have  had  a  more 
comfortable  time  of  it.  Instead  of  a  yawning 
sepulchre,  with  Romeo  and  Juliet  dying  in  the 
middle  foreground,  and  that  luckless  young 
Paris  stretched  out  on  the  left,  spitted  like  a 
spring  chicken  with  Montague's  rapier,  and 
Friar  Laurence,  with  a  dark  lantern,  groping 
about  under  the  melancholy  yews  —  in  place  of 
all  this  costly  piled-up  woe,  I  would  have  liked 
a  pretty,  mediaeval  chapel  scene,  with  illumi- 
nated stained-glass  windows,  and  trim  acolytes 
holding  lighted  candles,  and  the  great  green 
curtain  slowly  descending  to  the  first  few  bars 
of  the  Wedding  March  of  Mendelssohn. 

Of  course  Shakespeare  was  true  to  the  life 


A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  87 

in  making  them  all  die  miserably.  Besides,  it 
was  so  they  died  in  the  novel  of  Matteo  Ban- 
dello,  from  which  the  poet  indirectly  took  his 
plot.  Under  the  circumstances  no  other  climax 
was  practicable;  and  yet  it  was  sad  business. 
There  were  Mercutio,  and  Tybalt,  and  Paris, 
and  Juliet,  and  Romeo,  come  to  a  bloody  end 
in  the  bloom  of  their  youth  and  strength  and 
beauty. 

The  ghosts  of  these  five  murdered  persons 
seemed  to  be  on  my  track  as  I  hurried  down 
Revere  Street  to  West  Cedar.  I  fancied  them 
hovering  around  the  corner  opposite  the  small 
drug-store,  where  a  meagre  apothecary  was  in 
the  act  of  shutting  up  the  fan-like  jets  of  gas  in 
his  shop-window. 

"No,  Master  Booth,"  I  muttered  in  the 
imagined  teeth  of  the  tragedian,  throwing  an 
involuntary  glance  over  my  shoulder,  "you'll 
not  catch  me  assisting  at  any  more  of  your 
Shakespearean  revivals.  I  would  rather  eat  a 
pair  of  Welsh  rarebits  or  a  segment  of  mince- 
pie  at  midnight  than  sit  through  the  finest 
tragedy  that  was  ever  writ." 

As  I  said  this  I  halted  at  the  door  of  a  house 
in  Charles  Place,  and  was  fumbling  for  my 
latch-key,  when  a  most  absurd  idea  came  into 
my  head.  I  let  the  key  slip  back  into  my 
pocket,  and  strode  down  Charles  Place  into 


88  A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY 

Cambridge  Street,  and  across  the  long  bridge, 
and  then  swiftly  forward. 

I  remember,  vaguely,  that  I  paused  for  a 
moment  on  the  draw  of  the  bridge,  to  look  at 
the  semicircular  fringe  of  lights  duplicating  it- 
self in  the  smooth  Charles  in  the  rear  of  Bea- 
con Street  —  as  lovely  a  bit  of  Venetian  effect 
as  you  will  get  outside  of  Venice ;  I  remember 
meeting,  farther  on,  near  a  stiff  wooden  church 
in  Cambridgeport,  a  lumbering  covered  wagon, 
evidently  from  Brighton  and  bound  for  Quincy 
Market ;  and  still  farther  on,  somewhere  in  the 
vicinity  of  Harvard  Square  and  the  college 
buildings,  I  recollect  catching  a  glimpse  of  a 
policeman,  who,  probably  observing  something 
suspicious  in  my  demeanor,  discreetly  walked 
off  in  an  opposite  direction.  I  recall  these 
trifles  indistinctly,  for  during  this  preposterous 
excursion  I  was  at  no  time  sharply  conscious  of 
my  surroundings  ;  the  material  world  presented 
itself  to  me  as  if  through  a  piece  of  stained 
glass.  It  was  only  when  I  had  reached  a  neigh- 
borhood where  the  houses  were  few  and  the 
gardens  many,  a  neighborhood  where  the  closely 
knitted  town  began  to  fringe  out  into  country, 
that  I  came  to  the  end  of  my  dream.  And 
what  was  the  dream  ?  The  slightest  of  tissues, 
madam  ;  a  gossamer,  a  web  of  shadows,  a  thing 
woven  out  of  starlight.  Looking  at  it  by  day, 


A   MIDNIGHT  FANTASY  89 

I  find  that  its  colors  are  pallid,  and  its  threaded 
diamonds  —  they  were  merely  the  perishable 
dews  of  that  June  night  —  have  evaporated 
in  the  sunshine;  but  such  as  it  is  you  shall 
have  it. 


II 

THE  young  prince  Hamlet  was  not  happy  at 
Elsinore.  It  was  not  because  he  missed  the 
gay  student-life  of  Wittenberg,  and  that  the  lit- 
tle Danish  court  was  intolerably  dull.  It  was 
not  because  the  didactic  lord  chamberlain  bored 
him  with  long  speeches,  or  that  the  lord  cham- 
berlain's daughter  was  become  a  shade  weari- 
some. Hamlet  had  more  serious  cues  for  un- 
happiness.  He  had  been  summoned  suddenly 
from  Wittenberg  to  attend  his  father's  funeral  ; 
close  upon  this,  and  while  his  grief  was  green, 
his  mother  had  married  with  his  uncle  Claudius, 
whom  Hamlet  had  never  liked. 

The  indecorous  haste  of  these  nuptials  — 
they  took  place  within  two  months  after  the 
king's  death,  the  funeral-baked  meats,  as  Ham- 
let cursorily  remarked,  furnishing  forth  the  mar- 
riage-tables —  struck  the  young  prince  aghast. 
He  had  loved  the  queen  his  mother,  and  had 
nearly  idolized  the  late  king ;  but  now  he  for- 
got to  lament  the  death  of  the  one  in  contem- 
plating the  life  of  the  other.  The  billing  and 
cooing  of  the  newly  married  couple  rilled  him 


A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  91 

with  horror.  Anger,  shame,  pity,  and  despair 
seized  upon  him  by  turns.  He  fell  into  a  for- 
lorn condition,  forsaking  his  books,  eating  little 
save  of  the  chameleon's  dish,  the  air,  drinking 
deep  of  Rhenish,  letting  his  long,  black  locks 
go  unkempt,  and  neglecting  his  dress  —  he  who 
had  hitherto  been  "the  glass  of  fashion  and 
the  mould  of  form,"  as  Ophelia  had  prettily 
said  of  him. 

Often  for  half  the  night  he  would  wander 
along  the  ramparts  of  the  castle,  at  the  immi- 
nent risk  of  tumbling  off,  gazing  seaward  and 
muttering  strangely  to  himself,  and  evolving 
frightful  spectres  out  of  the  shadows  cast  by 
the  turrets.  Sometimes  he  lapsed  into  a  gen- 
tle melancholy ;  but  not  seldom  his  mood  was 
ferocious,  and  at  such  times  the  conversational 
Polonius,  with  a  discretion  that  did  him  credit, 
steered  clear  of  my  lord  Hamlet. 

He  turned  no  more  graceful  compliments 
for  Ophelia.  The  thought  of  marrying  her,  if 
he  had  ever  seriously  thought  of  it,  was  gone 
now.  He  rather  ruthlessly  advised  her  to  go 
into  a  nunnery.  His  mother  had  sickened  him 
of  women.  It  was  of  her  he  spoke  the  notable 
words,  "  Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  !  "  which, 
some  time  afterwards,  an  amiable  French  gen- 
tleman had  neatly  engraved  on  the  head-stone 
of  his  wife,  who  had  long  been  an  invalid. 


92  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY 

Even  the  king  and  queen  did  not  escape  Ham- 
let in  his  distempered  moments.  Passing  his 
mother  in  a  corridor  or  on  a  staircase  of  the 
palace,  he  would  suddenly  plant  a  verbal  dag- 
ger in  her  heart ;  and  frequently,  in  full  court, 
he  would  deal  the  king  such  a  cutting  reply  as 
caused  him  to  blanch,  and  gnaw  his  lip. 

If  the  spectacle  of  Gertrude  and  Claudius 
was  hateful  to  Hamlet,  the  presence  of  Hamlet, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  scarcely  a  comfort  to 
the  royal  lovers.  At  first  his  uncle  had  called 
him  "our  chiefest  courtier,  cousin,  and  our  son," 
trying  to  smooth  over  matters ;  but  Hamlet 
would  have  none  of  it.  Therefore,  one  day, 
when  the  young  prince  abruptly  announced  his 
intention  to  go  abroad,  neither  the  king  nor  the 
queen  placed  impediments  in  his  way,  though 
some  months  previously  they  had  both  pro- 
tested strongly  against  his  returning  to  Witten- 
berg. 

The  small-fry  of  the  court  knew  nothing  of 
Prince  Hamlet's  determination  until  he  had 
sailed  from  Elsinore ;  their  knowledge  then  was 
confined  to  the  fact  of  his  departure.  It  was 
only  to  Horatio,  his  fellow-student  and  friend, 
that  Hamlet  confided  the  real  cause  of  his  self- 
imposed  exile,  though  perhaps  Ophelia  half  sus- 
pected it. 

Polonius  had  dropped  an  early  hint  to  his 


A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  93 

daughter  concerning  Hamlet's  intent.  She 
knew  that  everything  was  over  between  them, 
and  the  night  before  he  embarked  Ophelia 
placed  in  the  prince's  hand  the  few  letters  and 
trinkets  he  had  given  her,  repeating,  as  she  did 
so,  a  certain  distich  which  somehow  haunted 
Hamlet's  memory  for  several  days  after  he  was 
on  shipboard  — 

"  Take  these  again  ;  for  to  the  noble  mind 
Rich  gifts  wax  poor  when  givers  prove  unkind." 

"These  could  never  have  waxed  poor,"  said 
Hamlet  softly  to  himself,  as  he  leaned  over  the 
taffrail,  the  third  day  out,  spreading  the  trin- 
kets in  his  palm,  "  being  originally  of  but  little 
worth.  I  fancy  that  that  allusion  to  '  rich  gifts ' 
was  a  trifle  malicious  on  the  part  of  the  fair 
Ophelia ; "  and  he  quietly  dropped  them  into 
the  sea. 

It  was  as  a  Danish  gentleman  voyaging  for 
pleasure,  and  for  mental  profit  also,  if  that 
should  happen,  that  Hamlet  set  forth  on  his 
travels.  Settled  destination  he  had  none,  his 
sole  plan  being  to  get  clear  of  Denmark  as 
speedily  as  possible,  and  then  to  drift  whither 
his  fancy  took  him.  His  fancy  naturally  took 
him  southward,  as  it  would  have  taken  him 
northward  if  he  had  been  a  Southron.  Many 
a  time  while  climbing  the  bleak  crags  around 
Elsinore  he  had  thought  of  the  land  of  the  cit- 


94  A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY 

ron  and  the  palm  ;  lying  on  his  couch  at  night, 
and  listening  to  the  wind  as  it  howled  along  the 
machicolated  battlements  of  the  castle,  his 
dreams  had  turned  from  the  cold,  blonde  ladies 
of  his  father's  court  to  the  warmer  beauties 
that  ripen  under  sunny  skies.  He  was  free 
now  to  test  the  visions  of  his  boyhood.  So  it 
chanced,  after  various  wanderings,  all  tending 
imperceptibly  in  one  direction,  that  Hamlet 
bent  his  steps  towards  Italy. 

In  those  rude  days  one  did  not  accomplish  a 
long  journey  without  having  wonderful  adven- 
tures befall,  or  encountering  divers  perils  by 
the  way.  It  was  a  period  when  a  stout  blade 
on  the  thigh  was  a  most  excellent  travelling 
companion.  Hamlet,  though  of  a  philosophical 
complexion,  was  not  slower  than  another  man 
to  scent  an  affront ;  he  excelled  at  feats  of 
arms,  and  no  doubt  his  skill,  caught  of  the  old 
fencing-master  at  Elsinore,  stood  him  in  good 
stead  more  than  once  when  his  wit  would  not 
have  saved  him.  Certainly,  he  had  hair-breadth 
escapes  while  toiling  through  the  wilds  of  Prus- 
sia and  Bavaria  and  Switzerland.  At  all  events, 
he  counted  himself  fortunate  the  night  he  ar- 
rived at  Verona  with  nothing  more  serious  than 
a  two-inch  scratch  on  his  sword  arm. 

There  he  lodged  himself,  as  became  a  gen- 
tleman of  fortune,  in  a  suite  of  chambers  in  a 


A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  95 

comfortable  palace  overlooking  the  swift-flowing 
Adige  —  a  riotous  yellow  stream  that  cut  the 
town  into  two  parts,  and  was  spanned  here  and 
there  by  rough-hewn  stone  bridges,  which  it 
sometimes  sportively  washed  away.  It  was  a 
brave  old  town  that  had  stood  sieges  and 
plagues,  and  was  full  of  mouldy,  picturesque 
buildings  and  a  gayety  that  has  since  grown 
somewhat  mouldy.  A  goodly  place  to  rest  in 
for  the  wayworn  pilgrim !  He  dimly  recol- 
lected that  he  had  letters  to  one  or  two  illustri- 
ous families  ;  but  he  cared  not  to  deliver  them 
at  once.  It  was  pleasant  to  stroll  about  the 
city,  unknown.  There  were  sights  to  see  :  the 
Roman  amphitheatre,  and  the  churches  with 
their  sculptured  sarcophagi  and  saintly  relics  — 
interesting  joints  and  saddles  of  martyrs,  and 
enough  fragments  of  the  true  cross  to  build  a 
ship.  The  life  in  the  piazze  and  on  the  streets, 
the  crowds  in  the  shops,  the  pageants,  the 
lights,  the  stir,  the  color,  all  mightily  took  the 
eye  of  the  young  Dane.  He  was  in  a  mood 
to  be  amused.  Everything  diverted  him  —  the 
faint  pulsing  of  a  guitar-string  in  an  adjacent 
garden  at  midnight,  or  the  sharp  clash  of  gleam- 
ing sword  blades  under  his  window,  when  the 
Montecchi  and  the  Cappelletti  chanced  to  en- 
counter one  another  in  the  narrow  footway. 
Meanwhile,  Hamlet  brushed  up  his  Italian. 


96  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY 

He  was  well  versed  in  the  literature  of  the  Ian- 
guage,  particularly  in  its  dramatic  literature, 
and  had  long  meditated  penning  a  gloss  to 
The  Murther  of  Gonzago,  a  play  which  Hamlet 
held  in  deservedly  high  estimation. 

He  made  acquaintances,  too.  In  the  same 
palace  where  he  sojourned  lived  a  very  valiant 
soldier  and  wit,  a  kinsman  to  Prince  Escalus, 
one  Mercutio  by  name,  with  whom  Hamlet  ex- 
changed civilities  on  the  staircase  at  first,  and 
then  fell  into  companionship.  A  number  of 
Verona's  noble  youths,  poets  and  light-hearted 
men-about-town,  frequented  Mercutio's  cham- 
bers, and  with  these  Hamlet  soon  became  on 
terms. 

Among  the  rest  were  an  agreeable  gentle- 
man, with  hazel  eyes,  named  Benvolio,  and  a 
gallant  young  fellow  called  Romeo,  whom  Mer- 
cutio bantered  pitilessly  and  loved  heartily. 
This  Romeo,  who  belonged  to  one  of  the  first 
families,  was  a  very  susceptible  spark,  which 
the  slightest  breath  of  a  pretty  woman  was  suf- 
ficient to  blow  into  flame.  To  change  the  met- 
aphor, he  fell  from  one  love  affair  into  another 
as  easily  and  logically  as  a  ripe  pomegranate 
drops  from  a  bough.  He  was  generally  un- 
lucky in  these  matters,  curiously  enough,  for 
he  was  a  handsome  youth  in  his  saffron  satin 
doublet  slashed  with  black,  and  his  jaunty  vel- 


A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  97 

vet  bonnet  with  its  trailing  plume  of  ostrich 
feather. 

At  the  time  of  Hamlet's  coming  to  Verona, 
Romeo  was  in  a  great  despair  of  love  in  con- 
sequence of  an  unrequited  passion  for  a  certain 
lady  of  the  city,  between  whose  family  and  his 
own  a  deadly  feud  had  existed  for  centuries. 
Somebody  had  stepped  on  somebody  else's  lap- 
dog  in  the  far  ages,  and  the  two  families  had 
been  slashing  and  hacking  at  each  other  ever 
since.  It  appeared  that  Romeo  had  scaled  a 
garden  wall,  one  night,  and  broken  upon  the 
meditations  of  his  inamorata,  who,  as  chance 
would  have  it,  was  sitting  on  her  balcony  enjoy- 
ing the  moonrise.  No  lady  could  be  insensible 
to  such  devotion,  for  it  would  have  been  death 
to  Romeo  if  any  of  her  kinsmen  had  found  him 
in  that  particular  locality.  Some  tender  phrases 
passed  between  them,  perhaps ;  but  the  lady 
was  flurried,  taken  unawares,  and  afterwards,  it 
seemed,  altered  her  mind,  and  would  have  no 
further  commerce  with  the  Montague.  This 
business  furnished  Mercutio's  quiver  with  in- 
numerable sly  shafts,  which  Romeo  received 
for  the  most  part  in  good  humor. 

With  these  three  gentlemen  —  Mercutio, 
Benvolio,  and  Romeo  —  Hamlet  saw  life  in  Ve- 
rona, as  young  men  will  see  life  wherever  they 
happen  to  be.  Many  a  time  the  nightingale 


98  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY 

ceased  singing  and  the  lark  began  before  they 
were  abed  ;  but  perhaps  it  is  not  wise  to  inquire 
too  closely  into  this.  A  month  had  slipped 
away  since  Hamlet's  arrival ;  the  hyacinths 
were  opening  in  the  gardens,  and  it  was  spring. 

One  morning,  as  he  and  Mercutio  were  loung- 
ing arm  in  arm  on  a  bridge  near  their  lodgings, 
they  met  a  knave  in  livery  puzzling  over  a  parch- 
ment which  he  was  plainly  unable  to  decipher. 

"  Read  it  aloud,  friend ! "  cried  Mercutio,  who 
always  had  a  word  to  throw  away. 

"  I  would  I  could  read  it  at  all.  I  pray,  sir, 
can  you  read  ? " 

"  With  ease  —  if  it  is  not  my  tailor's  score  ; " 
and  Mercutio  took  the  parchment,  which  ran 
as  follows  — 

"  Signior  Martina,  and  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ters;  County  Anselmo,  and  his  beauteous  sisters ; 
the  lady  widow  Vitruvio ;  Signior  Placentio, 
and  his  lovely  nieces  ;  Mercutio,  and  his  brother 
Valentine ;  mine  uncle  Capulet,  his  wife  and 
daughters;  my  fair  niece  Rosaline;  Lima; 
Signior  Valentio,  and  his  cousin  Tybalt;  Lucio, 
and  the  lively  Helena." 

"A  very  select  company,  with  the  exception 
of  that  rogue  Mercutio,"  said  the  soldier,  laugh- 
ing. "  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"My  master,  the  Signior  Capulet,  gives  a 
ball  and  supper  to-night;  these  the  guests;  I 


A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  99 

am  his  man  Peter,  and  if  you  be  not  one  of  the 
house  of  Montague,  I  pray  come  and  crush  a 
cup  of  wine  with  us.  Rest  you  merry ; "  and 
the  knave,  having  got  his  billet  deciphered  for 
him,  made  off. 

"  One  must  needs  go,  being  asked  by  both 
master  and  man ;  but  since  I  am  asked  doubly, 
I  '11  not  go  singly ;  I  '11  bring  you  with  me, 
Hamlet.  It  is  a  masquerade ;  I  have  had  wind 
of  it.  The  flower  of  the  city  will  be  there  —  all 
the  high-bosomed  roses  and  low-necked  lilies." 

Hamlet  had  seen  nothing  of  society  in  Ve- 
rona, properly  speaking,  and  did  not  require 
much  urging  to  assent  to  Mercutio's  proposal, 
far  from  foreseeing  that  so  slight  a  freak  would 
have  a  fateful  sequence. 

It  was  late  in  the  night  when  they  presented 
themselves,  in  mask  and  domino,  at  the  Capulet 
mansion.  The  music  was  at  its  sweetest  and  the 
torches  were  at  their  brightest,  as  the  pair  en- 
tered the  dancing  -  hall.  They  had  scarcely 
crossed  the  threshold  when  Hamlet's  eyes  rested 
upon  a  lady  clad  in  a  white  silk  robe,  who  held  to 
her  features,  as  she  moved  through  the  figure  of 
the  dance,  a  white  satin  mask,  on  each  side  of 
which  was  disclosed  so  much  of  the  rosy  oval 
of  her  face  as  made  one  long  to  look  upon 
the  rest.  The  ornaments  this  lady  wore  were 
pearls ;  her  fan  and  slippers,  like  the  robe  and 


ioo  A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY 

mask,  were  white  —  nothing  but  white.  Her 
eyes  shone  almost  black  contrasted  with  the 
braids  of  warm  gold  hair  that  glistened  through 
a  misty  veil  of  Venetian  stuff,  which  floated 
about  her  from  time  to  time  and  enveloped  her, 
as  the  blossoms  do  a  tree.  Hamlet  could  think 
of  nothing  but  the  almond-tree  that  stood  in 
full  bloom  in  the  little  cortile  near  his  lodging. 
She  seemed  to  him  the  incarnation  of  that  ex- 
quisite spring-time  which  had  touched  and 
awakened  all  the  leaves  and  buds  in  the  sleepy 
old  gardens  around  Verona. 

"  Mercutio  !  who  is  that  lady  ? " 

"  The  daughter  of  old  Capulet,  by  her  stat- 
ure." 

"And  he  that  dances  with  her ? " 

"Paris,  a  kinsman  to  Can  Grande  della 
Scala." 

"  Her  lover  ?  " 

"  One  of  them." 

"  She  has  others  ? " 

"  Enough  to  make  a  squadron  ;  only  the  blind 
and  aged  are  exempt." 

Here  the  music  ceased  and  the  dancers  dis- 
persed. Hamlet  followed  the  lady  with  his 
eyes,  and,  seeing  her  left  alone  a  moment,  ap- 
proached her.  She  received  him  graciously,  as 
a  mask  receives  a  mask,  and  the  two  fell  to 
talking,  as  persons  do  who  have  nothing  to  say 


A  MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  101 

to  each  other  and  possess  the  art  of  saying  it. 
Presently  something  in  his  voice  struck  on  her 
ear,  a  new  note,  an  intonation  sweet  and  strange, 
that  made  her  curious.  Who  was  it  ?  It  could 
not  be  Valentine,  nor  Anselmo ;  he  was  too 
tall  for  Signior  Placentio,  not  stout  enough  for 
Lucio  ;  it  was  not  her  cousin  Tybalt.  Could  it 
be  that  rash  Montague  who  —  Would  he  dare  ? 
Here,  on  the  very  points  of  their  swords  ?  The 
stream  of  maskers  ebbed  and  flowed  and  surged 
around  them,  and  the  music  began  again,  and 
Juliet  listened  and  listened. 

"  Who  are  you,  sir,"  she  cried,  at  last,  "  that 
speak  our  tongue  with  feigned  accent  ? " 

"  A  stranger ;  an  idler  in  Verona,  though  not 
a  gay  one  —  a  black  butterfly." 

"Our  Italian  sun  will  gild  your  wings  for 
you.  Black  edged  with  gilt  goes  gay." 

"  I  am  already  not  so  sad-colored  as  I  was." 

"  I  would  fain  see  your  face,  sir ;  if  it  match 
your  voice,  it  needs  must  be  a  kindly  one." 

"I  would  we  could  change  faces." 

"  So  we  shall  at  supper !  " 

"  And  hearts,  too  ? " 

"  Nay,  I  would  not  give  a  merry  heart  for 
a  sorrowful  one ;  but  I  will  quit  my  mask,  and 
you  yours ;  yet,"  and  she  spoke  under  her 
breath,  "  if  you  are,  as  I  think,  a  gentleman  of 
Verooa  — a  Montague  —  do  not  unmask." 


102  A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY 

"  I  am  not  of  Verona,  lady ;  no  one  knows 
me  here  ;  "  and  Hamlet  threw  back  the  hood 
of  his  domino.  Juliet  held  her  mask  aside  for 
a  moment,  and  the  two  stood  looking  into  each 
other's  eyes. 

"  Lady,  we  have  in  faith  changed  faces,  at 
least  as  I  shall  carry  yours  forever  in  my 
memory." 

"And  I  yours,  sir,"  said  Juliet  softly,  "wish- 
ing it  looked  not  so  pale  and  melancholy." 

"  Hamlet,"  whispered  Mercutio,  plucking  at 
his  friend's  skirt,  "the  fellow  there,  talking 
with  old  Capulet  —  his  wife's  nephew,  Tybalt, 
a  quarrelsome  dog  —  suspects  we  are  Monta- 
gues. Let  us  get  out  of  this  peaceably,  like 
soldiers  who  are  too  much  gentlemen  to  cause 
a  brawl  under  a  host's  roof." 

With  this  Mercutio  pushed  Hamlet  to  the 
door,  where  they  were  joined  by  Benvolio. 
Juliet,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  retreating 
maskers,  stretched  out  her  hand  and  grasped 
the  arm  of  an  ancient  serving-woman  who  hap- 
pened to  be  passing. 

"Quick,  good  Nurse!  go  ask  his  name  of 
yonder  gentleman.  Nay,  not  the  one  in  green, 
dear!  but  he  that  hath  the  black  domino  and 
purple  mask.  What,  did  I  touch  your  poor 
rheumatic  arm  ?  Ah,  go  now,  sweet  Nurse ! " 

As  the  Nurse  hobbled  off  querulously  on  her 


A  MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  103 

errand,  Juliet  murmured  to  herself  an  old  rhyme 
she  knew  — 

"  If  he  be  married, 
My  grave  is  like  to  be  my  wedding  bed  !  " 

When  Hamlet  got  back  to  his  own  chambers 
he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  couch  in  a  brown 
study.  The  silvery  moonlight,  struggling 
through  the  swaying  branches  of  a  tree  outside 
the  window,  drifted  doubtfully  into  the  room, 
and  made  a  parody  of  that  fleecy  veil  which 
erewhile  had  floated  about  the  lissome  form  of 
the  lovely  Capulet.  That  he  loved  her,  and 
must  tell  her  that  he  loved  her,  was  a  foregone 
conclusion ;  but  how  should  he  contrive  to  see 
Juliet  again  ?  No  one  knew  him  in  Verona  ;  he 
had  carefully  preserved  his  incognito ;  even 
Mercutio  regarded  him  as  simply  a  young  gen- 
tleman from  Denmark,  taking  his  ease  in  a  for- 
eign city.  Presented,  by  Mercutio,  as  a  rich 
Danish  tourist,  the  Capulets  would  receive  him 
courteously,  of  course ;  as  a  visitor,  but  not  as 
a  suitor.  It  was  in  another  character  that  he 
must  be  presented  —  his  own. 

He  was  pondering  what  steps  he  could  take 
to  establish  his  identity,  when  he  remembered 
the  two  or  three  letters  which  he  had  stuffed 
into  his  wallet  on  quitting  Elsinore.  He  lighted 
a  taper,  and  began  examining  the  papers. 
Among  them  were  the  half  dozen  billet  -  doux 


104  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY 

which  Ophelia  had  returned  to  him  the  night 
before  his  departure.  They  were  neatly  tied 
together  by  a  length  of  black  ribbon,  to  which 
was  attached  a  sprig  of  rosemary. 

"That  was  just  like  Ophelia !  "  muttered  the 
young  man,  tossing  the  package  into  the  wallet 
again ;  "  she  was  always  having  cheerful  ideas 
like  that." 

How  long  ago  seemed  the  night  she  had 
handed  him  these  love-letters,  in  her  demure 
little  way!  How  misty  and  remote  seemed 
everything  connected  with  the  old  life  at  Elsi- 
nore!  His  father's  death,  his  mother's  mar- 
riage, his  anguish  and  isolation  —  they  were 
like  things  that  had  befallen  somebody  else. 
There  was  something  incredible,  too,  in  his 
present  situation.  Was  he  dreaming?  Was 
he  really  in  Italy,  and  in  love  ? 

He  nastily  bent  forward  and  picked  up  a 
square  folded  paper  lying  half  concealed  under 
the  others. 

"How  could  I  have  forgotten  it !  "  he  ex- 
claimed. 

It  was  a  missive  addressed,  in  Horatio's 
angular  hand,  to  the  Signior  Capulet  of  Verona, 
containing  a  few  lines  of  introduction  from 
Horatio,  whose  father  had  dealings  with  some 
•of  the  rich  Lombardy  merchants  and  knew 
many  of  the  leading  families  in  the  city.  With 


A   MIDNIGHT  FANTASY  105 

this  and  several  epistles,  preserved  by  chance, 
written  to  him  by  Queen  Gertrude  while  he 
was  at  the  university,  Hamlet  saw  that  he 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  proving  to  the 
Capulets  that  he  was  the  Prince  of  Denmark. 

At  an  unseemly  hour  the  next  morning  Mer- 
cutio  was  roused  from  his  slumbers  by  Hamlet, 
who  counted  every  minute  a  hundred  years 
until  he  saw  Juliet.  Mercutio  did  not  take  this 
interruption  too  patiently,  for  the  honest  hu- 
morist was  very  serious  as  a  sleeper ;  but  his 
equilibrium  was  quickly  restored  by  Hamlet's 
revelation. 

The  friends  were  long  closeted  together,  and 
at  the  proper,  ceremonious  hour  for  visitors 
they  repaired  to  the  house  of  Capulet,  who  did 
not  hide  his  sense  of  the  honor  done  him  by 
the  prince.  With  scarcely  any  prelude  Ham- 
let unfolded  the  motive  of  his  visit,  and  was 
listened  to  with  rapt  attention  by  old  Capulet, 
who  inwardly  blessed  his  stars  that  he  had  not 
given  his  daughter's  hand  to  the  County  Paris, 
as  he  was  on  the  point  of  doing.  The  ladies 
were  not  visible  on  this  occasion  ;  the  fatigues 
of  the  ball  overnight,  etc.  ;  but  that  same  even- 
ing Hamlet  was  accorded  an  interview  with 
Juliet  and  Lady  Capulet,  and  a  few  days  subse- 
quently all  Verona  was  talking  of  nothing  but 
the  new  engagement. 


io6  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY 

The  destructive  Tybalt  scowled  at  first,  and 
twirled  his  fierce  mustache,  and  young  Paris 
took  to  writing  dejected  poetry  ;  but  they  both 
soon  recovered  their  serenity,  seeing  that  no- 
body minded  them,  and  went  together  arm  in 
arm  to  pay  their  respects  to  Hamlet. 

A  new  life  began  now  for  Hamlet.  He  shed 
his  inky  cloak,  and  came  out  in  a  doublet  of 
insolent  splendor,  looking  like  a  dagger-handle 
newly  gilt.  With  his  funereal  gear  he  appeared 
to  have  thrown  off  something  of  his  sepulchral 
gloom.  It  was  impossible  to  be  gloomy  with 
Juliet,  in  whom  each  day  developed  some  sunny 
charm  unguessed  before.  Her  freshness  and 
coquettish  candor  were  constant  surprises.  She 
had  had  many  lovers,  and  she  confessed  them  to 
Hamlet  in  the  prettiest  way.  "  Perhaps,  my 
dear,"  she  said  to  him  one  evening,  with  an  in- 
effable smile,  "  I  might  have  liked  young  Romeo 
very  well,  but  the  family  were  so  opposed  to  it 
from  the  very  first.  And  then  he  was  so  —  so 
demonstrative,  don't  you  know  ? " 

Hamlet  had  known  of  Romeo's  futile  passion, 
but  he  had  not  been  aware  until  then  that  his 
betrothed  was  the  heroine  of  the  balcony  ad- 
venture. On  leaving  Juliet  he  went  to  look  up 
the  Montague ;  not  for  the  purpose  of  crossing 
rapiers  with  him,  as  another  man  might  have 
done,  but  to  compliment  him  on  his  unexcep- 
tional taste  in  admiring  so  rare  a  lady. 


A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  107 

But  Romeo  had  disappeared  in  a  most  unac- 
countable manner,  and  his  family  were  in  great 
tribulation  concerning  him.  It  was  thought 
that  perhaps  the  unrelenting  Rosaline  (who  had 
been  Juliet's  frigid  predecessor)  had  relented, 
and  Montague's  man  Abram  was  despatched  to 
seek  Romeo  at  her  residence ;  but  the  Lady 
Rosaline,  who  was  embroidering  on  her  piazza., 
placidly  denied  all  knowledge  of  him.  It  was 
then  feared  that  he  had  fallen  in  one  of  the 
customary  encounters  ;  but  there  had  been  no 
fight,  and  nobody  had  been  killed  on  either  side 
for  nearly  twelve  hours.  Nevertheless,  his  exit 
had  the  appearance  of  being  final.  When 
Hamlet  questioned  Mercutio,  the  honest  soldier 
laughed  and  stroked  his  blond  mustache. 

"  The  boy  has  gone  off  in  a  heat,  I  don't 
know  where  —  to  the  icy  ends  of  the  earth,  I 
believe,  to  cool  himself." 

Hamlet  regretted  that  Romeo  should  have 
had  any  feeling  in  the  matter ;  but  regret  was 
a  bitter  weed  that  did  not  thrive  well  in  the 
atmosphere  in  which  the  fortunate  lover  was 
moving.  He  saw  Juliet  every  day,  and  there 
was  not  a  fleck  upon  his  happiness,  unless  it 
was  the  garrulous  Nurse,  against  whom  Hamlet 
had  taken  a  singular  prejudice.  He  considered 
her  a  tiresome  old  person,  not  too  decent  in  her 
discourse  at  times,  and  advised  Juliet  to  get 


io8  A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY 

rid  of  her  ;  but  the  ancient  serving-woman  had 
been  in  the  family  for  years,  and  it  was  not 
quite  expedient  to  discharge  her  at  that  late 
day. 

With  the  subtile  penetration  of  old  age  the 
Nurse  instantly  detected  Hamlet's  dislike,  and 
returned  it  heartily. 

"Ah,  ladybird,"  she  cried  one  night,  "ah, 
well-a-day  !  you  know  not  how  to  choose  a  man. 
An  I  could  choose  for  you,  Jule !  By  God's 
lady,  there 's  Signior  Mercutio,  a  brave  gentle- 
man, a  merry  gentleman,  and  a  virtuous,  I  war- 
rant ye,  whose  little  finger-joint  is  worth  all  the 
body  of  this  blackbird  prince,  dropping  down 
from  Lord  knows  where  to  fly  off  with  the 
sweetest  bit  of  flesh  in  Verona.  Marry,  come 
up!" 

But  this  was  only  a  ripple  on  the  stream  that 
flowed  so  smoothly.  Now  and  then,  indeed, 
Hamlet  felt  called  upon  playfully  to  chide 
Juliet  for  her  extravagance  of  language,  as 
when,  for  instance,  she  prayed  that  when  he 
died  he  might  be  cut  out  in  little  stars  to  deck 
the  face  of  night.  Hamlet  objected,  under  any 
circumstances,  to  being  cut  out  in  little  stars 
for  any  illuminating  purposes  whatsoever.  Once 
she  suggested  to  her  lover  that  he  should  come 
to  the  garden  after  the  family  retired,  and  she 
would  speak  with  him  a  moment  from  the  bal- 


A  MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  109 

cony.  Now,  as  there  was  no  obstacle  to  their 
seeing  each  other  whenever  they  pleased,  and 
as  Hamlet  was  of  a  nice  sense  of  honor,  and 
since  his  engagement  a  most  exquisite  practicer 
of  propriety,  he  did  not  encourage  Juliet  in  her 
thoughtlessness. 

"What!"  he  cried,  lifting  his  finger  at  her 
reprovingly,  "  romantic  again !  " 

This  was  their  nearest  approach  to  a  lovers' 
quarrel.  The  next  day  Hamlet  brought  her,  as 
peace-offering,  a  slender  gold  flask  curiously 
wrought  in  niello,  which  he  had  had  filled  with 
a  costly  odor  at  an  apothecary's  as  he  came 
along. 

"  I  never  saw  so  lean  a  thing  as  that  same 
culler  of  simples,"  said  Hamlet,  laughing;  "a 
matter  of  ribs  and  shanks,  a  mere  skeleton 
painted  black.  It  is  a  rare  essence,  though. 
He  told  me  its  barbaric  botanical  name,  but  it 
escapes  me." 

"That  which  we  call  a  rose,"  said  Juliet, 
holding  the  perfumery  to  her  nostrils  and  in- 
clining herself  prettily  towards  him,  "would 
smell  as  sweet  by  any  other  name." 

O  Youth  and  Love !     O  fortunate  Time  ! 

There  was  a  banquet  almost  every  night  at 
the  Capulets',  and  the  Montagues,  up  the  street, 
kept  their  blinds  drawn  down,  and  Lady  Mon- 
tague, who  had  four  marriageable,  tawny  daugh- 


no  A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY 

ters  on  her  hands,  was  livid  with  envy  at  her 
neighbor's  success.  She  would  rather  have  had 
two  or  three  Montagues  prodded  through  the 
body  than  that  the  prince  should  have  gone  to 
the  rival  house. 

Happy  Prince ! 

If  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  and  Laer- 
tes, and  the  rest  of  the  dismal  folk  at  Elsinore, 
could  have  seen  him  now,  they  would  not  have 
known  him.  Where  were  his  wan  looks  and 
biting  speeches  ?  His  eyes  were  no  longer 
filled  with  mournful  speculation.  He  went  in 
glad  apparel,  and  took  the  sunshine  as  his  nat- 
ural inheritance.  If  he  ever  fell  into  moodi- 
ness  —  it  was  partly  constitutional  with  him  — 
the  shadow  fled  away  at  the  first  approach  of 
that  "loveliest  weight  on  lightest  foot."  The 
sweet  Veronese  had  nestled  in  his  empty  heart, 
and  filled  it  with  music.  The  ghosts  and  vi- 
sions that  used  to  haunt  him  were  laid  forever 
by  Juliet's  magic. 

Happy  Juliet ! 

Her  beauty  had  taken  a  new  gloss.  The 
bud  had  grown  into  a  flower,  redeeming  the 
promises  of  the  bud.  If  her  heart  beat  less 
wildly,  it  throbbed  more  strongly.  If  she  had 
given  Hamlet  of  her  superabundance  of  spirits, 
he  had  given  her  of  his  wisdom  and  discretion. 
She  had  always  been  a  great  favorite  in  soci- 


A  MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  ill 

ety;  but  Verona  thought  her  ravishing  now. 
The  mantua-makers  cut  their  dresses  by  her 
patterns,  and  when  she  wore  turquoise,  garnets 
went  out  of  style.  Instead  of  the  groans  and 
tears,  and  all  those  distressing  events  which 
might  possibly  have  happened  if  Juliet  had  per- 
sisted in  loving  Romeo — listen  to  her  laugh 
and  behold  her  merry  eyes  ! 

Every  morning  either  Peter  or  Gregory  might 
have  been  seen  going  up  Hamlet's  staircase 
with  a  note  from  Juliet  —  she  had  ceased  to 
send  the  Nurse  on  discovering  her  lover's  an- 
tipathy to  that  person  —  and  some  minutes 
later  either  Gregory  or  Peter  might  have  been 
observed  coming  down  the  staircase  with  a 
missive  from  Hamlet.  Juliet  had  detected  his 
gift  for  verse,  and  insisted,  rather  capriciously, 
on  having  all  his  replies  in  that  shape.  Ham- 
let humored  her,  though  he  was  often  hard  put 
to  it ;  for  the  Muse  is  a  coy  immortal,  and  will 
not  always  come  when  she  is  wanted.  Some- 
times he  was  forced  to  fall  back  upon  previous 
efforts,  as  when  he  translated  these  lines  into 
very  choice  Italian  — 

"  Doubt  thou  the  stars  are  fire, 

Doubt  that  the  sun  doth  move ; 
Doubt  Truth  to  be  a  liar, 
But  never  doubt  I  love." 

To  be  sure,  he  had  originally  composed  this 


112  A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY 

quatrain  for  Ophelia ;  but  what  would  you  have  ? 
He  had  scarcely  meant  it  then ;  he  meant  it 
now ;  besides,  a  felicitous  rhyme  never  goes  out 
of  fashion.  It  always  fits. 

While  transcribing  the  verse  his  thoughts 
naturally  reverted  to  Ophelia,  for  the  little  poesy 
was  full  of  a  faint  scent  of  the  past,  like  a 
pressed  flower.  His  conscience  did  not  prick 
him  at  all.  How  fortunate  for  him  and  for  her 
that  matters  had  gone  no  further  between  them  ? 
Predisposed  to  melancholy,  and  inheriting  a  not 
very  strong  mind  from  her  father,  Ophelia  was 
a  lady  who  needed  cheering  up,  if  ever  poor 
lady  did.  He,  Hamlet,  was  the  last  man  on  the 
globe  with  whom  she  should  have  had  any  tender 
affiliation.  If  they  had  wed,  they  would  have 
caught  each  other's  despondency,  and  died,  like 
a  pair  of  sick  ravens,  within  a  fortnight.  What 
had  become  of  her  ?  Had  she  gone  into  a  nun- 
nery ?  He  would  make  her  an  abbess,  if  he 
ever  returned  to  Elsinore. 

After  a  month  or  two  of  courtship,  there  be- 
ing no  earthly  reason  to  prolong  it,  Hamlet  and 
Juliet  were  privately  married  in  the  Franciscan 
Chapel,  Friar  Laurence  officiating;  but  there 
was  a  grand  banquet  that  night  at  the  Capu- 
lets',  to  which  all  Verona  went.  At  Hamlet's 
intercession,  the  Montagues  were  courteously 
asked  to  this  festival.  To  the  amazement  of 


A  MIDNIGHT   FANTASY  113 

every  one  the  Montagues  accepted  the  invita- 
tion and  came,  and  were  treated  royally,  and 
the  long,  lamentable  feud  —  it  would  have  sorely 
puzzled  either  house  to  explain  what  it  was  all 
about  —  was  at  an  end.  The  adherents  of  the 
Capulets  and  the  Montagues  were  forbidden  on 
the  spot  to  bite  any  more  thumbs  at  one  another. 

"It  will  detract  from  the  general  gayety  of 
the  town,"  Mercutio  remarked.  "  Signior  Ty- 
balt, my  friend,  I  shall  never  have  the  pleasure 
of  running  you  through  the  diaphragm  ;  a  cup 
of  wine  with  you  !  " 

The  guests  were  still  at  supper  in  the  great 
pavilion  erected  in  the  garden,  which  was  as 
light  as  day  with  the  glare  of  innumerable  flam- 
beaux set  among  the  shrubbery.  Hamlet  and 
Juliet,  with  several  others,  had  withdrawn  from 
the  tables,  and  were  standing  in  the  doorway  of 
the  pavilion,  when  Hamlet's  glance  fell  upon 
the  familiar  form  of  a  young  man  who  stood 
with  one  foot  on  the  lower  step,  holding  his 
plumed  bonnet  in  his  hand.  His  hose  and 
doublet  were  travel-worn,  but  his  honest  face 
was  as  fresh  as  daybreak. 

"What!     Horatio?" 

"  The  same,  my  lord,  and  your  poor  servant 
ever." 

"  Sir,  my  good  friend  :  I  '11  change  that  name 
with  you.  What  brings  you  to  Verona  ? " 


114  A   MIDNIGHT   FANTASY 

"  I  fetch  you  news,  my  lord" 

"  Good  news  ?    Then  the  king  is  dead." 

"The  king  lives,  but  Ophelia  is  no  more." 

"  Ophelia  dead !  " 

"Not  so,  my  lord ;  she  's  married." 

"I  pray  thee,  do  not  mock  me,  fellow-stu- 
dent." 

"As  I  do  live,  my  honored  lord,  't  is  true." 

"  Married,  say  you  ?  " 

"Married  to  him  that  sent  me  hither  —  a 
gentleman  of  winning  ways  and  a  most  choice 
conceit,  the  scion  of  a  noble  house  here  in 
Verona  —  one  Romeo." 

The  oddest  little  expression  flitted  over  Ju- 
liet's face.  There  was  never  woman  yet,  even 
on  her  bridal  day,  could  forgive  a  jilted  lover 
marrying. 

"  Ophelia  wed !  "  murmured  the  bridegroom. 

"  Do  you  know  the  lady,  dear  ?  " 

"  Excellent  well,"  replied  Hamlet,  turning  to 
Juliet ;  "  a  most  estimable  young  person,  the 
daughter  of  my  father's  chamberlain.  She  is 
rather  given  to  singing  ballads  of  an  elegiac 
nature,"  added  the  prince  reflectingly,  "but 
our  madcap  Romeo  will  cure  her  of  that.  Me- 
thinks  I  see  them  now  "  — 

"  Oh,  where,  my  lord  ? " 

"  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio,  surrounded  by 
their  little  ones  —  noble  youths  and  graceful 


A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY  115 

maidens,  in  whom  the  impetuosity  of  the  fiery 
Romeo  is  tempered  by  the  pensiveness  of  the 
fair  Ophelia.  I  shall  take  it  most  unkindly  of 
them,  love,"  toying  with  Juliet's  fingers,  "if 
they  do  not  name  their  first  boy  Hamlet." 

It  was  just  as  my  lord  Hamlet  finished  speak- 
ing that  the  last  horse-car  for  Boston  —  pro- 
videntially belated  between  Watertown  and 
Mount  Auburn  —  swept  round  the  curve  of  the 
track  on  which  I  was  walking.  The  amber 
glow  of  the  car-lantern  lighted  up  my  figure  in 
the  gloom,  the  driver  gave  a  quick  turn  on  the 
brake,  and  the  conductor,  making  a  sudden 
dexterous  clutch  at  the  strap  over  his  head, 
sounded  the  death-knell  of  my  fantasy  as  I 
stepped  upon  the  rear  platform. 


MADEMOISELLE       OLYMPE 
ZABRISKI 


WE  are  accustomed  to  speak  with  a  certain 
light  irony  of  the  tendency  which  women  have 
to  gossip,  as  if  the  sin  itself,  if  it  is  a  sin,  were 
of  the  gentler  sex,  and  could  by  no  chance  be  a 
masculine  peccadillo.  So  far  as  my  observation 
goes,  men  are  as  much  given  to  small  talk  as 
women,  and  it  is  undeniable  that  we  have  pro- 
duced the  highest  type  of  gossiper  extant. 
Where  will  you  find,  in  or  out  of  literature, 
such  another  droll,  delightful,  chatty  busybody 
as  Samuel  Pepys,  Esq.,  Secretary  to  the  Ad- 
miralty in  the  reigns  of  those  fortunate  gentle- 
men Charles  II.  and  James  II.  of  England? 
He  is  the  king  of  tattlers  as  Shakespeare  is  the 
king  of  poets. 

If  it  came  to  a  matter  of  pure  gossip,  I  would 
back  Our  Club  against  the  Sorosis  or  any 
women's  club  in  existence.  Whenever  you  see 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI     117 

in  our  drawing-room  four  or  five  young  fellows 
lounging  in  easy-chairs,  cigar  in  hand,  and  now 
and  then  bringing  their  heads  together  over  the 
small  round  Japanese  table  which  is  always  the 
pivot  of  these  social  circles,  you  may  be  sure 
that  they  are  discussing  Tom's  engagement,  or 
Dick's  extravagance,  or  Harry's  hopeless  pas- 
sion for  the  younger  Miss  Fleurdelys.  It  is 
here  old  Tappleton  gets  execrated  for  that  ever- 
lasting bon  mot  of  his  which  was  quite  a  success 
at  dinner-parties  forty  years  ago ;  it  is  here  the 
belle  of  the  season  passes  under  the  scalpels  of 
merciless  young  surgeons ;  it  is  here  O's  finan- 
cial condition  is  handled  in  a  way  that  would 
make  O's  hair  stand  on  end  ;  it  is  here,  in 
short,  that  everything  is  canvassed  —  every- 
thing that  happens  in  our  set,  I  mean,  much  that 
never  happens,  and  a  great  deal  that  could  not 
possibly  happen.  It  was  at  Our  Club  that  I 
learned  the  particulars  of  the  Van  Twiller 
affair. 

It  was  great  entertainment  to  Our  Club,  the 
Van  Twiller  affair,  though  it  was  rather  a  joy- 
less thing,  I  fancy,  for  Van  Twiller.  In  order  to 
understand  the  case  fully,  it  should  be  under- 
stood that  Ralph  Van  Twiller  is  one  of  the 
proudest  and  most  sensitive  men  living.  He 
is  a  lineal  descendant  of  Wouter  Van  Twiller, 
the  famous  old  Dutch  governor  of  New  York 


Ii8     MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI 

—  Nieuw  Amsterdam,  as  it  was  then ;  his  ances- 
tors have  always  been  burgomasters  or  admirals 
or  generals,  and  his  mother  is  the  Mrs.  Vanrens- 
selaer  Vanzandt  Van  T wilier  whose  magnificent 
place  will  be  pointed  out  to  you  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  Hudson,  as  you  pass  up  the  historic 
river  towards  Idlewild.  Ralph  is  about  twenty- 
five  years  old.  Birth  made  him  a  gentleman, 
and  the  rise  of  real  estate  —  some  of  it  in  the 
family  since  the  old  governor's  time  —  made 
him  a  millionaire.  It  was  a  kindly  fairy  that 
stepped  in  and  made  him  a  good  fellow  also. 
Fortune,  I  take  it,  was  in  her  most  jocund  mood 
when  she  heaped  her  gifts  in  this  fashion  on 
Van  Twiller,  who  was,  and  will  be  again,  when 
this  cloud  blows  over,  the  flower  of  Our  Club. 

About  a  year  ago  there  came  a  whisper  —  if 
the  word  "whisper  "  is  not  too  harsh  a  term  to 
apply  to  what  seemed  a  mere  breath  floating 
gently  through  the  atmosphere  of  the  billiard- 
room  —  imparting  the  intelligence  that  Van 
Twiller  was  in  some  kind  of  trouble.  Just  as 
everybody  suddenly  takes  to  wearing  square- 
toed  boots,  or  to  drawing  his  neckscarf  through 
a  ring,  so  it  became  all  at  once  the  fashion, 
without  any  preconcerted  agreement,  for  every- 
body to  speak  of  Van  Twiller  as  a  man  in  some 
way  under  a  cloud.  But  what  the  cloud  was, 
and  how  he  got  under  it,  and  why  he  did  not 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI     119 

get  away  from  it,  were  points  that  lifted  them- 
selves into  the  realm  of  pure  conjecture. 
There  was  no  man  in  the  club  with  strong 
enough  wing  to  his  imagination  to  soar  to  the 
supposition  that  Van  Twiller  was  embarrassed 
in  money  matters.  Was  he  in  love  ?  That 
appeared  nearly  as  improbable  ;  for  if  he  had 
been  in  love  all  the  world  —  that  is,  perhaps  a 
hundred  first  families  —  would  have  known  all 
about  it  instantly. 

"  He  has  the  symptoms,"  said  Delaney, 
laughing.  "I  remember  once  when  Jack 
Flemming"  — 

"  Ned  !  "  cried  Flemming,  "  I  protest  against 
any  allusion  to  that  business." 

This  was  one  night  when  Van  Twiller  had 
wandered  into  the  club,  turned  over  the  maga- 
zines absently  in  the  reading-room,  and  wan- 
dered out  again  without  speaking  ten  words. 
The  most  careless  eye  would  have  remarked 
the  great  change  that  had  come  over  Van  Twil- 
ler. Now  and  then  he  would  play  a  game  of 
billiards  with  De  Peyster  or  Haseltine,  or  stop 
to  chat  a  moment  in  the  vestibule  with  old 
Duane ;  but  he  was  an  altered  man.  When  at 
the  club,  he  was  usually  to  be  found  in  the 
small  smoking-room  up-stairs,  seated  on  a  fau- 
teuil  fast  asleep,  with  the  last  number  of  The 
Dramatic  News  in  his  hand.  Once,  if  you 


120     MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI 

went  to  two  or  three  places  of  an  evening,  you 
were  certain  to  meet  Van  Twiller  at  them  all. 
You  seldom  met  him  in  society  now. 

By  and  by  came  whisper  number  two  — 
a  whisper  more  emphatic  than  number  one,  but 
still  untraceable  to  any  tangible  mouth-piece. 
This  time  the  whisper  said  that  Van  Twiller 
was  in  love.  But  with  whom  ?  The  list  of 
possible  Mrs.  Van  Twillers  was  carefully  exam- 
ined by  experienced  hands,  and  a  check  placed 
against  a  fine  old  Knickerbocker  name  here  and 
there,  but  nothing  satisfactory  arrived  at.  Then 
that  same  still  small  voice  of  rumor,  but  now 
with  an  easily  detected  staccato  sharpness  to 
it,  said  that  Van  Twiller  was  in  love  —  with  an 
actress !  Van  Twiller,  whom  it  had  taken  all 
these  years  and  all  this  waste  of  raw  material 
in  the  way  of  ancestors  to  bring  to  perfection 
—  Ralph  Van  Twiller,  the  net  result  and  flower 
of  his  race,  the  descendant  of  Wouter,  the  son 
of  Mrs.  Vanrensselaer  Vanzandt  Van  Twiller  — 
in  love  with  an  actress  !  That  was  too  ridicu- 
lous to  be  believed — and  so  everybody  be- 
lieved it. 

Six  or  seven  members  of  the  club  abruptly 
discovered  in  themselves  an  unsuspected  pas- 
sion for  the  histrionic  art.  In  squads  of  two  or 
three  they  stormed  successively  all  the  theatres 
in  town  —  Booth's,  Wallack's,  Daly's  Fifth 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI     121 

Avenue  (not  burnt  down  then),  and  the  Grand 
Opera  House.  Even  the  shabby  homes  of  the 
drama  over  in  the  Bowery,  where  the  Germanic 
Thespis  has  not  taken  out  his  naturalization 
papers,  underwent  rigid  exploration.  But  no 
clue  was  found  to  Van  Twiller's  mysterious  at- 
tachment. The  Optra  bouffe,  which  promised 
the  widest  field  for  investigation,  produced  abso- 
lutely nothing,  not  even  a  crop  of  suspicions. 
One  night,  after  several  weeks  of  this,  Delaney 
and  I  fancied  that  we  caught  sight  of  Van 
Twiller  in  the  private  box  of  an  up-town  theatre, 
where  some  thrilling  trapeze  performance  was 
going  on,  which  we  did  not  care  to  sit  through  ; 
but  we  concluded  afterwards  that  it  was  only 
somebody  who  looked  like  him.  Delaney,  by 
the  way,  was  unusually  active  in  this  search. 
I  dare  say  he  never  quite  forgave  Van  Twiller 
for  calling  him  Muslin  Delaney.  Ned  is  fond 
of  ladies'  society,  and  that 's  a  fact. 

The  Cimmerian  darkness  which  surrounded 
Van  Twiller's  inamorata  left  us  free  to  indulge 
in  the  wildest  conjectures.  Whether  she  was 
black-tressed  Melpomene,  with  bowl  and  dag- 
ger, or  Thalia,  with  the  fair  hair  and  the  laugh- 
ing face,  was  only  to  be  guessed  at.  It  was 
popularly  conceded,  however,  that  Van  Twiller 
was  on  the  point  of  forming  a  dreadful  misal- 
liance. 


122     MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE  ZABRISKI 

Up  to  this  period  he  had  visited  the  club 
regularly.  Suddenly  he  ceased  to  appear.  He 
was  not  to  be  seen  on  Fifth  Avenue,  or  in  the 
Central  Park,  or  at  the  houses  he  generally  fre- 
quented. His  chambers  —  and  mighty  com- 
fortable chambers  they  were  —  on  Thirty- 
fourth  Street  were  deserted.  He  had  dropped 
out  of  the  world,  shot  like  a  bright  particular 
star  from  his  orbit  in  the  heaven  of  the  best 
society. 

The  following  conversation  took  place  one 
night  in  the  smoking-room  :  — 

"  Where 's  Van  Twiller  ?  " 

"  Who 's  seen  Van  Twiller  ? " 

"What  has  become  of  Van  Twiller  ?" 

"  Perhaps  he  has  got  a  touch  of  the  gout," 
suggested  somebody. 

"  What,  Van  Twiller  ?  Why,  he  's  the  most 
abstemious  of  men." 

"He  inherited  the  gout,"  observed  De  Pey- 
ster.  "  The  dear  boy  says  that  it  is  one  of  his 
'  ancestral  achers.'  " 

Delaney  picked  up  The  Evening  Post,  and 
read  —  with  a  solemnity  that  betrayed  young 
Firkins  into  exclaiming,  "  By  Jove,  now  ! "  — 

"Married,  on  the  loth  instant,  by  the  Rev. 
Friar  Laurence,  at  the  residence  of  the  bride's 
uncle,  Montague  Capulet,  Esq.,  Miss  Adrienne 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI     123 

Le  Couvreur  to  Mr.  Ralph  Van  Twiller,  both 
of  this  city.  No  cards." 

"  Free  List  suspended,"  murmured  De  Pey- 
ster. 

"  It  strikes  me,"  said  Frank  Livingstone,  who 
had  been  ruffling  the  leaves  of  a  magazine  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  "  that  you  fellows  are  in 
a  great  fever  about  Van  Twiller." 

"  So  we  are." 

"  Well,  he  has  simply  gone  out  of  town." 

"Where?" 

"  Up  to  the  old  homestead  on  the  Hudson." 

"  It 's  an  odd  time  of  year  for  a  fellow  to  go 
into  the  country." 

"  He  has  gone  to  visit  his  mother,"  said  Liv- 
ingstone. 

"  In  February  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  know,  Delaney,  that  there  was  any 
statute  in  force  prohibiting  a  man  from  visiting 
his  mother  in  February  if  he  wants  to." 

Delaney  made  some  light  remark  about  the 
pleasure  of  communing  with  Nature  with  a 
cold  in  her  head,  and  the  topic  was  dropped. 

Livingstone  was  hand  in  glove  with  Van 
Twiller,  and  if  any  man  shared  his  confidence 
it  was  Livingstone.  He  was  aware  of  the  gos- 
sip and  speculation  that  had  been  rife  in  the 
club,  but  he  either  was  not  at  liberty  or  did  not 


124    MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI 

think  it  worth  while  to  relieve  our  curiosity.  In 
the  course  of  a  week  or  two  it  was  reported 
that  Van  Twiller  was  going  to  Europe ;  and  go 
he  did.  A  dozen  of  us  went  down  to  the 
Scythia  to  see  him  off.  It  was  refreshing  to 
have  something  as  positive  as  the  fact  that  Van 
Twiller  had  sailed. 


II 

SHORTLY  after  Van  Twiller's  departure  the 
whole  thing  came  out.  Whether  Livingstone 
found  the  secret  too  heavy  a  burden,  or  whether 
it  transpired  through  some  indiscretion  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Vanrensselaer  Vanzandt  Van 
Twiller,  I  cannot  say ;  but  one  evening  the  en- 
tire story  was  in  the  possession  of  the  club. 

Van  Twiller  had  actually  been  very  deeply 
interested  —  not  in  an  actress,  for  the  legiti- 
mate drama  was  not  her  humble  walk  in  life, 
but  —  in  Mademoiselle  Olympe  Zabriski,  whose 
really  perilous  feats  on  the  trapeze  had  aston- 
ished New  York  the  year  before,  though  they 
had  failed  to  attract  Delaney  and  me  the  night 
we  wandered  into  the  up-town  theatre  on  the 
trail  of  Van  Twiller's  mystery. 

That  a  man  like  Van  Twiller  should  be  fasci- 
nated even  for  an  instant  by  a  common  circus- 
girl  seems  incredible;  but  it  is  always  the 
incredible  thing  that  happens.  Besides,  Made- 
moiselle Olympe  was  not  a  common  circus-girl ; 
she  was  a  most  daring  and  startling  gymnaste, 
with  a  beauty  and  a  grace  of  movement  that 


126    MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE  ZABRISKI 

gave  to  her  audacious  performance  almost  an 
air  of  prudery.  Watching  her  wondrous  dex- 
terity and  pliant  strength,  both  exercised  without 
apparent  effort,  it  seemed  the  most  natural  pro- 
ceeding in  the  world  that  she  should  do  those 
unpardonable  things.  She  had  a  way  of  melt- 
ing from  one  graceful  posture  into  another,  like 
the  dissolving  figures  thrown  from  a  stereopti- 
con.  She  was  a  lithe,  radiant  shape  out  of  the 
Grecian  mythology,  now  poised  up  there  above 
the  gaslights,  and  now  gleaming  through  the 
air  like  a  slender  gilt  arrow. 

I  am  describing  Mademoiselle  Olympe  as  she 
appeared  to  Van  Twiller  on  the  first  occasion 
when  he  strolled  into  the  theatre  where  she 
was  performing.  To  me  she  was  a  girl  of  eigh- 
teen or  twenty  years  of  age  (may  be  she  was 
much  older,  for  pearl-powder  and  distance  keep 
these  people  perpetually  young),  slightly  but 
exquisitely  built,  with  sinews  of  silver  wire ; 
rather  pretty,  perhaps,  after  a  manner,  but 
showing  plainly  the  effects  of  the  exhaustive 
drafts  she  was  making  on  her  physical  vitality. 
Now,  Van  Twiller  was  an  enthusiast  on  the 
subject  of  calisthenics.  "  If  I  had  a  daughter," 
Van  Twiller  used  to  say,  "  I  would  n't  send  her 
to  a  boarding-school,  or  a  nunnery ;  I  'd  send 
her  to  a  gymnasium  for  the  first  five  years. 
Our  American  women  have  no  physique.  They 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI     127 

are  lilies,  pallid,  pretty  —  and  perishable.  You 
marry  an  American  woman,  and  what  do  you 
marry  ?  A  headache.  Look  at  English  girls. 
They  are  at  least  roses,  and  last  the  season 
through." 

Walking  home  from  the  theatre  that  first 
night,  it  flitted  through  Van  Twiller's  mind 
that  if  he  could  give  this  girl's  set  of  nerves 
and  muscles  to  any  one  of  the  two  hundred 
high-bred  women  he  knew,  he  would  marry  her 
on  the  spot  and  worship  her  forever. 

The  following  evening  he  went  to  see  Made- 
moiselle Olympe  again.  "  Olympe  Zabriski," 
he  soliloquized,  as  he  sauntered  through  the 
lobby  — "  what  a  queer  name !  Olympe  is 
French,  and  Zabriski  is  Polish.  It  is  her  nom 
de  guerre,  of  course ;  her  real  name  is  probably 
Sarah  Jones.  What  kind  of  creature  can  she 
be  in  private  life,  I  wonder  ?  I  wonder  if  she 
wears  that  costume  all  the  time,  and  if  she 
springs  to  her  meals  from  a  horizontal  bar.  Of 
course  she  rocks  the  baby  to  sleep  on  the  tra- 
peze." And  Van  Twiller  went  on  making  comi- 
cal domestic  tableaux  of  Mademoiselle  Zabri- 
ski, like  the  clever,  satirical  dog  he  was,  until 
the  curtain  rose. 

This  was  on  a  Friday.  There  was  a  matinee 
the  next  day,  and  he  attended  that,  though  he 
had  secured  a  seat  for  the  usual  evening  enter- 


128     MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI 

tainment.  Then  it  became  a  habit  of  Van 
Twiller's  to  drop  into  the  theatre  for  half  an 
hour  or  so  every  night,  to  assist  at  the  inter- 
lude, in  which  she  appeared.  He  cared  only 
for  her  part  of  the  programme,  and  timed  his 
visits  accordingly.  It  was  a  surprise  to  him- 
self when  he  reflected,  one  morning,  that  he 
had  not  missed  a  single  performance  of  Made- 
moiselle Olympe  for  nearly  two  weeks. 

"This  will  never  do,"  said  Van  Twiller. 
"  Olympe  "  —  he  called  her  Olympe,  as  if  she 
were  an  old  acquaintance,  and  so  she  might 
have  been  considered  by  that  time  —  "is  a 
wonderful  creature ;  but  this  will  never  do. 
Van,  my  boy,  you  must  reform  this  altogether." 

But  half  past  nine  that  night  saw  him  in  his 
accustomed  orchestra  chair,  and  so  on  for  an- 
other week.  A  habit  leads  a  man  so  gently  in 
the  beginning  that  he  does  not  perceive  he  is 
led  —  with  what  silken  threads  and  down  what 
pleasant  avenues  it  leads  him  !  By  and  by  the 
soft  silk  threads  become  iron  chains,  and  the 
pleasant  avenues  Avernus  ! 

Quite  a  new  element  had  lately  entered 
into  Van  Twiller's  enjoyment  of  Mademoiselle 
Olympe' s  ingenious  feats  —  a  vaguely  born  ap- 
prehension that  she  might  slip  from  that  swing- 
ing bar ;  that  one  of  the  thin  cords  supporting 
it  might  snap,  and  let  her  go  headlong  from 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI     129 

the  dizzy  height.  Now  and  then,  for  a  terrible 
instant,  he  would  imagine  her  lying  a  glitter- 
ing, palpitating  heap  at  the  footlights,  with  no 
color  in  her  lips !  Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if 
the  girl  were  tempting  this  kind  of  fate.  It 
was  a  hard,  bitter  life,  and  nothing  but  poverty 
and  sordid  misery  at  home  could  have  driven 
her  to  it.  What  if  she  should  end  it  all  some 
night,  by  just  unclasping  that  little  hand  ?  It 
looked  so  small  and  white  from  where  Van 
Twiller  sat ! 

This  frightful  idea  fascinated  while  it  chilled 
him,  and  helped  to  make  it  nearly  impossible 
for  him  to  keep  away  from  the  theatre.  In 
the  beginning  his  attendance  had  not  interfered 
with  his  social  duties  or  pleasures  ;  but  now  he 
came  to  find  it  distasteful  after  dinner  to  do 
anything  but  read,  or  walk  the  streets  aim- 
lessly, until  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  play. 
When  that  was  over,  he  was  in  no  mood  to  go 
anywhere  but  to  his  rooms.  So  he  dropped 
away  by  insensible  degrees  from  his  habitual 
haunts,  was  missed,  and  began  to  be  talked 
about  at  the  club.  Catching  some  intimation 
of  this,  he  ventured  no  more  in  the  orchestra 
stalls,  but  shrouded  himself  behind  the  draper- 
ies of  the  private  box  in  which  Delaney  and  I 
thought  we  saw  him  on  one  occasion. 

Now,  I  find  it  very  perplexing  to  explain  what 


I3o    MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI 

Van  Twiller  was  wholly  unable  to  make  deal 
to  himself.  He  was  not  in  love  with  Made- 
moiselle Olympe.  He  had  no  wish  to  speak  to 
her,  or  to  hear  her  speak.  Nothing  could  have 
been  easier,  and  nothing  further  from  his  de- 
sire, than  to  know  her  personally.  A  Van 
Twiller  personally  acquainted  with  a  strolling 
female  acrobat !  Good  heavens  !  That  was 
something  possible  only  with  the  discovery  of 
perpetual  motion.  Taken  from  her  theatrical 
setting,  from  her  lofty  perch,  so  to  say,  on 
the  trapeze-bar,  Olympe  Zabriski  would  have 
shocked  every  aristocratic  fibre  in  Van  Twil- 
ler's  body.  He  was  simply  fascinated  by  her 
marvellous  grace  and  Man,  and  the  magnetic 
recklessness  of  the  girl.  It  was  very  young  in 
him  and  very  weak,  and  no  member  of  the 
Sorosis,  or  all  the  Sorosisters  together,  could 
have  been  more  severe  on  Van  Twiller  than  he 
was  on  himself.  To  be  weak,  and  to  know  it, 
is  something  of  a  punishment  for  a  proud  man. 
Van  Twiller  took  his  punishment,  and  went  to 
the  theatre,  regularly. 

"When  her  engagement  comes  to  an  end," 
he  meditated,  "  that  will  finish  the  business." 

Mademoiselle  Olympe's  engagement  finally 
did  come  to  an  end,  and  she  departed.  But 
her  engagement  had  been  highly  beneficial  to 
the  treasury-chest  of  the  up-town  theatre,  and 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI     131 

before  Van  Twiller  could  get  over  missing  her 
she  had  returned  from  a  short  Western  tour, 
and  her  immediate  reappearance  was  underlined 
on  the  play-bills. 

On  a  dead-wall  opposite  the  windows  of  Van 
Twiller's  sleeping-room  there  appeared,  as  if  by 
necromancy,  an  aggressive  poster  with  MADE- 
MOISELLE OLYMPE  ZABRISKI  on  it  in  letters  at 
least  a  foot  high.  This  thing  stared  him  in  the 
face  when  he  woke  up,  one  morning.  It  gave 
him  a  sensation  as  if  she  had  called  on  him 
overnight,  and  left  her  card. 

From  time  to  time  through  the  day  he  re- 
garded that  poster  with  a  sardonic  eye.  He 
had  resolved  not  to  repeat  the  folly  of  the  pre- 
vious month.  To  say  that  this  moral  victory 
cost  him  nothing  would  be  to  deprive  it  of 
merit.  It  cost  him  many  internal  struggles. 
It  is  a  fine  thing  to  see  a  man  seizing  his  temp- 
tation by  the  throat,  and  wrestling  with  it,  and 
trampling  it  under  foot  like  St.  Anthony.  This 
was  the  spectacle  Van  Twiller  was  exhibiting  to 
the  angels. 

The  evening  Mademoiselle  Olympe  was  to 
make  her  reappearance,  Van  Twiller,  having 
dined  at  the  club,  and  feeling  more  like  himself 
than  he  had  felt  for  weeks,  returned  to  his 
chamber,  and,  putting  on  dressing-gown  and 
slippers,  piled  up  the  greater  portion  of  his 


132     MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI 

library  about  him,  and  fell  to  reading  assiduously. 
There  is  nothing  like  a  quiet  evening  at  home 
with  some  slight  intellectual  occupation,  after 
one's  feathers  have  been  stroked  the  wrong 
way. 

When  the  lively  French  clock  on  the  mantel- 
piece —  a  base  of  malachite  surmounted  by  a 
flying  bronze  Mercury  with  its  arms  spread 
gracefully  on  the  air,  and  not  remotely  sugges- 
tive of  Mademoiselle  Olympe  in  the  act  of  exe- 
cuting her  grand  flight  from  the  trapeze  — 
when  the  clock,  I  repeat,  struck  nine,  Van 
Twiller  paid  no  attention  to  it.  That  was  cer- 
tainly a  triumph.  I  am  anxious  to  render  Van 
Twiller  all  the  justice  I  can,  at  this  point  of  the 
narrative,  inasmuch  as  when  the  half  hour 
sounded  musically,  like  a  crystal  ball  dropping 
into  a  silver  bowl,  he  rose  from  the  chair  auto- 
matically, thrust  his  feet  into  his  walking-shoes, 
threw  his  overcoat  across  his  arm,  and  strode 
out  of  the  room. 

To  be  weak  and  to  scorn  your  weakness,  and 
not  to  be  able  to  conquer  it,  is,  as  has  been  said, 
a  hard  thing ;  and  I  suspect  it  was  not  with 
unalloyed  satisfaction  that  Van  Twiller  found 
himself  taking  his  seat  in  the  back  part  of  the 
private  box  night  after  night  during  the  second 
engagement  of  Mademoiselle  Olympe.  It  was 
so  easy  not  to  stay  away  ! 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI     133 

In  this  second  edition  of  Van  Twiller's  fatuity, 
his  case  was  even  worse  than  before.  He  not 
only  thought  of  Olympe  quite  a  number  of 
times  between  breakfast  and  dinner,  he  not 
only  attended  the  interlude  regularly,  but  he 
began,  in  spite  of  himself,  to  occupy  his  leisure 
hours  at  night  by  dreaming  of  her.  This  was 
too  much  of  a  good  thing,  and  Van  Twiller 
regarded  it  so.  Besides,  the  dream  was  always 
the  same  —  a  harrowing  dream,  a  dream  singu- 
larly adapted  to  shattering  the  nerves  of  a  man 
like  Van  Twiller.  He  would  imagine  himself 
seated  at  the  theatre  (with  all  the  members  of 
Our  Club  in  the  parquet),  watching  Mademoi- 
selle Olympe  as  usual,  when  suddenly  that 
young  lady  would  launch  herself  desperately 
from  the  trapeze,  and  come  flying  through  the 
air  like  a  firebrand  hurled  at  his  private  box. 
Then  the  unfortunate  man  would  wake  up  with 
cold  drops  standing  on  his  forehead. 

There  is  one  redeeming  feature  in  this  infat- 
uation of  Van  Twiller's  which  the  sober  moralist 
will  love  to  look  upon  —  the  serene  unconscious- 
ness of  the  person  who  caused  it.  She  went 
through  her  r61e  with  admirable  aplomb,  drew 
her  salary,  it  may  be  assumed,  punctually,  and 
appears  from  first  to  last  to  have  been  ignorant 
that  there  was  a  miserable  slave  wearing  her 
chains  nightly  in  the  left-hand  proscenium-box. 


134    MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE  ZABRISKI 

That  Van  Twiller,  haunting  the  theatre  with 
the  persistency  of  an  ex-actor,  conducted  him- 
self so  discreetly  as  not  to  draw  the  fire  of 
Mademoiselle  Olympe's  blue  eyes  shows  that 
Van  Twiller,  however  deeply  under  a  spell,  was 
not  in  love.  I  say  this,  though  I  think  if  Van 
Twiller  had  not  been  Van  Twiller,  if  he  had 
been  a  man  of  no  family  and  no  position  and  no 
money,  if  New  York  had  been  Paris  and  Thirty- 
fourth  Street  a  street  in  the  Latin  Quarter  — 
but  it  is  useless  to  speculate  on  what  might  have 
happened.  What  did  happen  is  sufficient. 

It  happened,  then,  in  the  second  week  of 
Queen  Olympe's  second  unconscious  reign, 
that  an  appalling  Whisper  floated  up  the  Hud- 
son, effected  a  landing  at  a  point  between 
Spuyten  Duyvel  Creek  and  Cold  Spring,  and 
sought  out  a  stately  mansion  of  Dutch  archi- 
tecture standing  on  the  bank  of  the  river.  The 
Whisper  straightway  informed  the  lady  dwell- 
ing in  this  mansion  that  all  was  not  well  with 
the  last  of  the  Van  Twillers ;  that  he  was  grad- 
ually estranging  himself  from  his  peers,  and 
wasting  his  nights  in  a  play-house  watching 
a  misguided  young  woman  turning  unmaidenly 
somersaults  on  a  piece  of  wood  attached  to  two 
ropes. 

Mrs.  Vanrensselaer  Vanzandt  Van  Twiller 
came  down  to  town  by  the  next  train  to  look 
into  this  little  matter. 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI     135 

She  found  the  flower  of  the  family  taking  an 
early  breakfast,  at  1 1  A.  M.,  in  his  cosey  apart- 
ments on  Thirty-fourth  Street.  With  the  least 
possible  circumlocution  she  confronted  him 
with  what  rumor  had  reported  of  his  pursuits, 
and  was  pleased,  but  not  too  much  pleased, 
when  he  gave  her  an  exact  account  of  his  rela- 
tions with  Mademoiselle  Zabriski,  neither  con- 
cealing nor  qualifying  anything.  As  a  confes- 
sion, it  was  unique,  and  might  have  been  a  great 
deal  less  entertaining.  Two  or  three  times  in 
the  course  of  the  narrative,  the  matron  had 
some  difficulty  in  preserving  the  gravity  of  her 
countenance.  After  meditating  a  few  minutes, 
she  tapped  Van  Twiller  softly  on  the  arm  with 
the  tip  of  her  parasol,  and  invited  him  to  return 
with  her  the  next  day  up  the  Hudson  and  make 
a  brief  visit  at  the  home  of  his  ancestors.  He 
accepted  the  invitation  with  outward  alacrity 
and  inward  disgust. 

When  this  was  settled,  and  the  worthy  lady 
had  withdrawn,  Van  Twiller  went  directly  to 
the  establishment  of  Messrs.  Ball,  Black  and 
Company,  and  selected,  with  unerring  taste, 
the  finest  diamond  bracelet  procurable.  For 
his  mother  ?  Dear  me,  no !  She  had  the  fam- 
ily jewels. 

I  would  not  like  to  state  the  enormous  sum 
Van  Twiller  paid  for  this  bracelet.  It  was 


136    MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI 

such  a  clasp  of  diamonds  as  would  have  has- 
tened  the  pulsation  of  a  patrician  wrist.  It 
was  such  a  bracelet  as  Prince  Camaralzaman 
might  have  sent  to  the  Princess  Badoura,  and 
the  Princess  Badoura  —  might  have  been  very 
glad  to  get. 

In  the  fragrant  Levant  morocco  case,  where 
these  happy  jewels  lived  when  they  were  at 
home,  Van  Twiller  thoughtfully  placed  his  card, 
on  the  back  of  which  he  had  written  a  line 
begging  Mademoiselle  Olympe  Zabriski  to  ac- 
cept the  accompanying  trifle  from  one  who  had 
witnessed  her  graceful  performances  with  inter- 
est and  pleasure.  This  was  not  done  inconsider- 
ately. "  Of  course  I  must  enclose  my  card,  as 
I  would  to  any  lady,"  Van  Twiller  had  said  to 
himself.  "  A  Van  Twiller  can  neither  write  an 
anonymous  letter  nor  make  an  anonymous 
present."  Blood  entails  its  duties  as  well  as  its 
privileges. 

The  casket  despatched  to  its  destination, 
Van  Twiller  felt  easier  in  his  mind.  He  was 
under  obligations  to  the  girl  for  many  an  agree- 
able hour  that  might  otherwise  have  passed 
heavily.  He  had  paid  the  debt,  and  he  had 
paid  it  en  prince,  as  became  a  Van  Twiller.  He 
spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  looking  at  some 
pictures  at  Goupil's,  and  at  the  club,  and  in 
making  a  few  purchases  for  his  trip  up  the 


MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI     137 

Hudson.  A  consciousness  that  this  trip  up  the 
Hudson  was  a  disorderly  retreat  came  over  him 
unpleasantly  at  intervals. 

When  he  returned  to  his  rooms  late  at  night, 
he  found  a  note  lying  on  the  writing-table.  He 

started  as  his  eye  caught  the  words  " 

Theatre "  stamped  in  carmine  letters  on  one 
corner  of  the  envelope.  Van  Twiller  broke  the 
seal  with  trembling  ringers. 

Now,  this  note  some  time  afterwards  fell  into 
the  hands  of  Livingstone,  who  showed  it  to 
Stuyvesant,  who  showed  it  to  Delaney,  who 
showed  it  to  me,  and  I  copied  it  as  a  literary 
curiosity.  The  note  ran  as  follows  — 

MR  VAN  TWILLER  DEAR  SIR  —  i  am  verry 
greatfull  to  you  for  that  Bracelett.  it  come 
just  in  the  nic  of  time  for  me.  The  Mademoi- 
selle Zabriski  dodg  is  about  Plaid  out.  my 
beard  is  getting  to  much  for  me.  i  shall  have 
to  grow  a  mustash  and  take  to  some  other  line 
of  busyness,  i  dont  no  what  now,  but  will  let 
you  no.  You  wont  feel  bad  if  i  sell  that  Brace- 
lett. i  have  seen  Abrahams  Moss  and  he  says 
he  will  do  the  square  thing.  Pleas  accep  my 
thanks  for  youre  Beautifull  and  Unexpected 
present. 

Youre  respectfull  servent, 

CHARLES  MONTMORENCI  WALTERS. 


138    MADEMOISELLE   OLYMPE   ZABRISKI 

The  next  day  Van  Twiller  neither  expressed 
nor  felt  any  unwillingness  to  spend  a  few  weeks 
with  his  mother  at  the  old  homestead. 

And  then  he  went  abroad. 


A   STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE 


ONE  morning  as  I  was  passing  through  Bos- 
ton Common,  which  lies  between  my  home  and 
my  office,  I  met  a  gentleman  lounging  along 
The  Mall.  I  am  generally  preoccupied  when 
walking,  and  often  thrid  my  way  through 
crowded  streets  without  distinctly  observing 
any  one.  But  this  man's  face  forced  itself 
upon  me,  and  a  singular  face  it  was.  His  eyes 
were  faded,  and  his  hair,  which  he  wore  long, 
was  flecked  with  gray.  His  hair  and  eyes,  if  I 
may  say  so,  were  sixty  years  old,  the  rest  of 
him  not  thirty.  The  youthfulness  of  his  figure, 
the  elasticity  of  his  gait,  and  the  venerable  ap- 
pearance of  his  head  were  incongruities  that 
drew  more  than  one  pair  of  curious  eyes  towards 
him.  He  excited  in  me  the  painful  suspicion 
that  he  had  got  either  somebody  else's  head 
or  somebody  else's  body.  He  was  evidently  an 
American,  at  least  so  far  as  the  upper  part  of 
him  was  concerned  —  the  New  England  cut  of 
countenance  is  unmistakable  —  evidently  a  man 


140  A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE 

who  had  seen  something  of  the  world,  but 
strangely  young  and  old. 

Before  reaching  the  Park  Street  gate,  I  had 
taken  up  the  thread  of  thought  which  he  had 
unconsciously  broken  ;  yet  throughout  the  day 
this  old  young  man,  with  his  unwrinkled  brow 
and  silvered  locks,  glided  in  like  a  phantom 
between  me  and  my  duties. 

The  next  morning  I  again  encountered  him 
on  The  Mall.  He  was  resting  lazily  on  the 
green  rails,  watching  two  little  sloops  in  distress, 
which  two  ragged  ship-owners  had  consigned  to 
the  mimic  perils  of  the  Pond.  The  vessels  lay 
becalmed  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean,  displaying 
a  tantalizing  lack  of  sympathy  with  the  frantic 
helplessness  of  the  owners  on  shore.  As  the 
gentleman  observed  their  dilemma,  a  light  came 
into  his  faded  eyes,  then  died  out,  leaving  them 
drearier  than  before.  I  wondered  if  he,  too,  in 
his  time,  had  sent  out  ships  that  drifted  and 
drifted  and  never  came  to  port ;  and  if  these 
poor  toys  were  to  him  types  of  his  own  losses. 

"  That  man  has  a  story,  and  I  should  like  to 
know  it,"  I  said,  half  aloud,  halting  in  one  of 
those  winding  paths  which  branch  off  from  the 
pastoral  quietness  of  the  Pond,  and  end  in  the 
rush  and  tumult  of  Tremont  Street. 

"  Would  you  ?  "  exclaimed  a  voice  at  my  side. 
I  turned  and  faced  Mr.  H ,  a  neighbor  of 


A   STRUGGLE   FOR   LIFE  141 

mine,  who  laughed  heartily  at  finding  me  talk- 
ing to  myself.  "Well,"  he  added  reflectingly, 
"  I  can  tell  you  this  man's  story  ;  and  if  you 
will  match  the  narrative  with  anything  as  cu- 
rious, I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  it." 

"  You  know  him,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes  and  no.  That  is  to  say,  I  do  not  know 
him  personally ;  but  I  know  a  singular  passage 
in  his  life.  I  happened  to  be  in  Paris  when  he 
was  buried." 

"Buried!" 

"  Well,  strictly  speaking,  not  buried ;  but 
something  quite  like  it.  If  you  've  a  spare  half 

hour,"  continued  my  friend  H ,  "  we'll  sit 

on  this  bench,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know  of 
an  affair  that  made  some  noise  in  Paris  a  couple 
of  years  ago.  The  gentleman  himself,  standing 
yonder,  will  serve  as  a  sort  of  frontispiece  to 
the  romance  —  a  full-page  illustration,  as  it 
were." 

The  following  pages  contain  the  story  which 
Mr.  H related  to  me.  While  he  was  tell- 
ing it,  a  gentle  wind  arose ;  the  miniature  sloops 
drifted  feebly  about  the  ocean  ;  the  wretched 
owners  flew  from  point  to  point,  as  the  deceptive 
breeze  promised  to  waft  the  barks  to  either 
shore  ;  the  early  robins  trilled  now  and  then 
from  the  newly  fringed  elms  ;  and  the  old  young 
man  leaned  on  the  rail  in  the  sunshine,  little 


142  A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE 

dreaming  that  two  gossips  were  discussing  his 
affairs  within  twenty  yards  of  him. 

Three  persons  were  sitting  in  a  salon  whose 
one  large  window  overlooked  the  Place  Ven- 
ddme.  M.  Dorine,  with  his  back  half  turned 
on  the  other  two  occupants  of  the  apartment, 
was  reading  the  Journal  des  Debats  in  an  al- 
cove, pausing  from  time  to  time  to  wipe  his 
glasses,  and  taking  scrupulous  pains  not  to 
glance  towards  the  lounge  at  his  right,  on 
which  were  seated  Mile.  Dorine  and  a  young 
American  gentleman,  whose  handsome  face 
rather  frankly  told  his  position  in  the  family. 
There  was  not  a  happier  man  in  Paris  that 
afternoon  than  Philip  Wentworth.  Life  had 
become  so  delicious  to  him  that  he  shrunk  from 
looking  beyond  to-day.  What  could  the  future 
add  to  his  full  heart,  what  might  it  not  take 
away  ?  The  deepest  joy  has  always  something 
of  melancholy  in  it  —  a  presentiment,  a  fleeting 
sadness,  a  feeling  without  a  name.  Wentworth 
was  conscious  of  this  subtile  shadow  that  night, 
when  he  rose  from  the  lounge  and  thoughtfully 
held  Julie's  hand  to  his  lip  for  a  moment  before 
parting.  A  careless  observer  would  not  have 
thought  him,  as  he  was,  the  happiest  man  in 
Paris. 

M.  Dorine  laid  down  his  paper,  and  came  for- 


A   STRUGGLE   FOR   LIFE  143 

ward.  "  If  the  house,"  he  said,  "  is  such  as  M. 
Cherbonneau  describes  it,  I  advise  you  to  close 
with  him  at  once.  I  would  accompany  you, 
Philip,  but  the  truth  is,  I  am  too  sad  at  losing 
this  little  bird  to  assist  you  in  selecting  a  cage 
for  her.  Remember,  the  last  train  for  town 
leaves  at  five.  Be  sure  not  to  miss  it ;  for  we 
have  seats  for  Sardou's  new  comedy  to-morrow 
night  By  to-morrow  night,"  he  added  laugh- 
ingly, "little  Julie  here  will  be  an  old  lady  —  it 
is  such  an  age  from  now  until  then." 

The  next  morning  the  train  bore  Philip  to 
one  of  the  loveliest  spots  within  twenty  miles  of 
Paris.  An  hour's  walk  through  green  lanes 
brought  him  to  M.  Cherbonneau's  estate.  In 
a  kind  of  dream  the  young  man  wandered  from 
room  to  room,  inspected  the  conservatory,  the 
stables,  the  lawns,  the  strip  of  woodland  through 
which  a  merry  brook  sang  to  itself  continually ; 
and,  after  lunching  with  M.  Cherbonneau,  com- 
pleted the  purchase,  and  turned  his  steps  to- 
wards the  station  just  in  time  to  catch  the 
express  train. 

As  Paris  stretched  out  before  him,  with  its 
lights  twinkling  in  the  early  dusk,  and  its  spires 
and  domes  melting  into  the  evening  air,  it 
seemed  to  Philip  as  if  years  had  elapsed  since 
he  left  the  city.  On  reaching  Paris  he  drove 
to  his  hOtel,  where  he  found  several  letters 


144  A   STRUGGLE   FOR   LIFE 

lying  on  the  table.  He  did  not  trouble  himself 
even  to  glance  at  their  superscriptions  as  he 
threw  aside  his  travelling  surtout  for  a  more 
appropriate  dress. 

If,  in  his  impatience  to  return  to  Mile.  Do- 
rine,  the  train  had  appeared  to  walk,  the  fiacre 
which  he  had  secured  at  the  station  appeared 
to  creep.  At  last  it  turned  into  the  Place 
Venddme,  and  drew  up  before  M.  Dorine's 
hotel.  The  door  opened  as  Philip's  foot  touched 
the  first  step.  The  valet  silently  took  his 
cloak  and  hat,  with  a  special  deference,  Philip 
thought ;  but  was  he  not  now  one  of  the  fam- 
ily ? 

"M.  Dorine,"  said  the  servant  slowly,  "is 
unable  to  see  Monsieur  at  present.  He  wishes 
Monsieur  to  be  shown  up  to  the  salon." 

"  Is  Mademoiselle  "  — 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"  Alone  ? " 

"Alone,  Monsieur,"  repeated  the  man,  look- 
ing curiously  at  Philip,  who  could  scarcely  re- 
press an  exclamation  of  pleasure. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  such  a  privilege  had 
been  accorded  him.  His  interviews  with  Julie 
had  always  taken  place  in  the  presence  of  M. 
Dorine,  or  some  member  of  the  household.  A 
well-bred  Parisian  girl  has  but  a  formal  ac- 
quaintance with  her  lover. 


A   STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE  145 

Philip  did  not  linger  on  the  staircase ;  with  a 
light  heart,  he  went  up  the  steps,  two  at  a  time, 
hastened  through  the  softly  lighted  hall,  in 
which  he  detected  the  faint  scent  of  her  favor- 
ite flowers,  and  stealthily  opened  the  door  of 
the  salon. 

The  room  was  darkened.  Underneath  the 
chandelier  stood  a  slim  black  casket  on  tres- 
tles. A  lighted  candle,  a  crucifix,  and  some 
white  flowers  were  on  a  table  near  by.  Julie 
Dorine  was  dead. 

When  M.  Dorine  heard  the  sudden  cry  that 
rang  through  the  silent  house,  he  hurried  from 
the  library,  and  found  Philip  standing  like  a 
ghost  in  the  middle  of  the  chamber. 

It  was  not  until  long  afterwards  that  Went- 
worth  learned  the  details  of  the  calamity  that 
had  befallen  him.  On  the  previous  night  Mile. 
Dorine  had  retired  to  her  room  in  seemingly 
perfect  health,  and  had  dismissed  her  maid  with 
a  request  to  be  awakened  early  the  next  morn- 
ing. At  the  appointed  hour  the  girl  entered 
the  chamber.  Mile.  Dorine  was  sitting  in  an 
armchair,  apparently  asleep.  The  candle  in 
the  bougeoir  had  burnt  down  to  the  socket ;  a 
book  lay  half  open  on  the  carpet  at  her  feet. 
The  girl  started  when  she  saw  that  the  bed  had 
not  been  occupied,  and  that  her  mistress  still 
wore  an  evening  dress.  She  rushed  to  Mile. 


146  A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE 

Dorine's  side.  It  was  not  slumber ;  it  was 
death. 

Two  messages  were  at  once  despatched  to 

Philip,  one  to  the  station  at  G ,  the  other 

to  his  hotel.  The  first  missed  him  on  the  road, 
the  second  he  had  neglected  to  open.  On  his 
arrival  at  M.  Dorine's  house,  the  valet,  under 
the  supposition  that  Wentworth  had  been  ad- 
vised of  Mile.  Dorine's  death,  broke  the  intelli- 
gence with  awkward  cruelty,  by  showing  him 
directly  to  the  salon. 

Mile.  Dorine's  wealth,  her  beauty,  the  sud- 
denness of  her  death,  and  the  romance  that 
had  in  some  way  attached  itself  to  her  love  for 
the  young  American  drew  crowds  to  witness 
the  funeral  ceremonies,  which  took  place  in  the 
church  in  the  Rue  d'Aguesseau.  The  body 
was  to  be  laid  in  M.  Dorine's  tomb,  in  the  cem- 
etery of  Montmartre. 

This  tomb  requires  a  few  words  of  descrip- 
tion. First  there  was  a  grating  of  filigraned 
iron  ;  through  this  you  looked  into  a  small  ves- 
tibule or  hall,  at  the  end  of  which  was  a  mas- 
sive door  of  oak  opening  upon  a  short  flight  of 
stone  steps  descending  into  the  tomb.  The 
vault  was  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  square,  ingen- 
iously ventilated  from  the  ceiling,  but  unlighted. 
It  contained  two  sarcophagi :  the  first  held  the 
remains  of  Madame  Dorine,  long  since  dead; 


A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE  147 

the  other  was  new,  and  bore  on  one  side  the 
letters  J.  D.,  in  monogram,  interwoven  with 
fleurs-de-lis. 

The  funeral  train  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the 
small  garden  that  enclosed  the  place  of  burial, 
only  the  immediate  relatives  following  the  bear- 
ers into  the  tomb.  A  slender  wax  candle,  such 
as  is  used  in  Catholic  churches,  burnt  at  the 
foot  of  the  uncovered  sarcophagus,  casting  a 
dim  glow  over  the  centre  of  the  apartment,  and 
deepening  the  shadows  which  seemed  to  huddle 
together  in  the  corners.  By  this  flickering 
light  the  coffin  was  placed  in  its  granite  shell, 
the  heavy  slab  laid  over  it  reverently,  and  the 
oaken  door  swung  on  its  rusty  hinges,  shutting 
out  the  uncertain  ray  of  sunshine  that  had  ven- 
tured to  peep  in  on  the  darkness. 

M.  Dorine,  muffled  in  his  cloak,  threw  him- 
self on  the  back  seat  of  the  landau,  too  ab- 
stracted in  his  grief  to  observe  that  he  was  the 
only  occupant  of  the  vehicle.  There  was  a 
sound  of  wheels  grating  on  the  gravelled  ave- 
nue, and  then  all  was  silence  again  in  the  cem- 
etery of  Montmartre.  At  the  main  entrance 
the  carriages  parted  company,  dashing  off  into 
various  streets  at  a  pace  that  seemed  to  express 
a  sense  of  relief. 

The  rattle  of  wheels  had  died  out  of  the  air 
when  Philip  opened  his  eyes,  bewildered,  like  a 


148  A   STRUGGLE   FOR   LIFE 

man  abruptly  roused  from  slumber.  He  raised 
himself  on  one  arm  and  stared  into  the  sur- 
rounding blackness.  Where  was  he  ?  In  a 
second  the  truth  flashed  upon  him.  He  had 
been  left  in  the  tomb  !  While  kneeling  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  stone  box,  perhaps  he  had 
fainted,  and  during  the  last  solemn  rites  his 
absence  had  been  unnoticed. 

His  first  emotion  was  one  of  natural  terror. 
But  this  passed  as  quickly  as  it  came.  Life 
had  ceased  to  be  so  very  precious  to  him ; 
and  if  it  were  his  fate  to  die  at  Julie's  side, 
was  not  that  the  fulfilment  of  the  desire 
which  he  had  expressed  to  himself  a  hundred 
times  that  morning  ?  What  did  it  matter,  a 
few  years  sooner  or  later  ?  He  must  lay  down 
the  burden  at  last.  Why  not  then  ?  A  pang 
of  self-reproach  followed  the  thought.  Could 
he  so  lightly  throw  aside  the  love  that  had 
bent  over  his  cradle  ?  The  sacred  name  of 
mother  rose  involuntarily  to  his  lips.  Was  it 
not  cowardly  to  yield  up  without  a  struggle  the 
life  which  he  should  guard  for  her  sake  ?  Was 
it  not  his  duty  to  the  living  and  the  dead  to  face 
the  difficulties  of  his  position,  and  overcome 
them  if  it  were  within  human  power  ? 

With  an  organization  as  delicate  as  a  woman's 
he  had  that  spirit  which,  however  sluggish  in 
repose,  leaps  with  a  kind  of  exultation  to  mea- 


A   STRUGGLE   FOR   LIFE  149 

sure  its  strength  with  disaster.  The  vague  fear 
of  the  supernatural,  that  would  affect  most 
men  in  a  similar  situation,  found  no  room  in  his 
heart.  He  was  simply  shut  in  a  chamber  from 
which  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  obtain 
release  within  a  given  period.  That  this  cham- 
ber contained  the  body  of  the  woman  he  loved, 
so  far  from  adding  to  the  terror  of  the  case,  was 
a  circumstance  from  which  he  drew  consola- 
tion. She  was  a  beautiful  white  statue  now. 
Her  soul  was  far  hence  ;  and  if  that  pure  spirit 
could  return,  would  it  not  be  to  shield  him  with 
her  love  ?  It  was  impossible  that  the  place 
should  not  engender  some  thought  of  the  kind. 
He  did  not  put  the  thought  entirely  from  him 
as  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  stretched  out  his 
hands  in  the  darkness ;  but  his  mind  was  too 
healthy  and  practical  to  indulge  long  in  such 
speculations. 

Philip,  being  a  smoker,  chanced  to  have  in 
his  pocket  a  box  of  allumettes.  After  several 
ineffectual  essays,  he  succeeded  in  igniting  one 
against  the  dank  wall,  and  by  its  momentary 
glare  perceived  that  the  candle  had  been  left  in 
the  tomb.  This  would  serve  him  in  examining 
the  fastenings  of  the  vault.  If  he  could  force 
the  inner  door  by  any  means,  and  reach  the 
grating,  of  which  he  had  an  indistinct  recollec- 
tion, he  might  hope  to  make  himself  heard. 


ISO  A   STRUGGLE   FOR   LIFE 

But  the  oaken  door  was  immovable,  as  solid  as 
the  wall  itself,  into  which  it  fitted  air-tight. 
Even  if  he  had  had  the  requisite  tools,  there 
were  no  fastenings  to  be  removed ;  the  hinges 
were  set  on  the  outside. 

Having  ascertained  this,  Philip  replaced  the 
candle  on  the  floor,  and  leaned  against  the  wall 
thoughtfully,  watching  the  blue  fan  of  flame 
that  wavered  to  and  fro,  threatening  to  detach 
itself  from  the  wick.  "At  all  events,"  he 
thought,  "the  place  is  ventilated."  Suddenly 
he  sprang  forward  and  extinguished  the  light. 

His  existence  depended  on  that  candle ! 

He  had  read  somewhere,  in  some  account  of 
shipwreck,  how  the  survivors  had  lived  for  days 
upon  a  few  candles  which  one  of  the  passengers 
had  insanely  thrown  into  the  long-boat.  And 
here  he  had  been  burning  away  his  very  life ! 

By  the  transient  illumination  of  one  of  the 
tapers,  he  looked  at  his  watch.  It  had  stopped 
at  eleven  —  but  eleven  that  day,  or  the  preced- 
ing night  ?  The  funeral,  he  knew,  had  left  the 
church  at  ten.  How  many  hours  had  passed 
since  then?  Of  what  duration  had  been  his 
swoon?  Alas!  it  was  no  longer  possible  for 
him  to  measure  those  hours  which  crawl  like 
snails  by  the  wretched,  and  fly  like  swallows 
over  the  happy. 

He  picked  up  the  candle,  and  seated  himself 


A  STRUGGLE   FOR   LIFE  151 

on  the  stone  steps.  He  was  a  sanguine  man, 
but,  as  he  weighed  the  chances  of  escape,  the 
prospect  appalled  him.  Of  course  he  would  be 
missed.  His  disappearance  under  the  circum- 
stances would  surely  alarm  his  friends  ;  they 
would  institute  a  search  for  him ;  but  who 
would  think  of  searching  for  a  live  man  in  the 
cemetery  of  Montmartre  ?  The  prefet  of  po- 
lice would  set  a  hundred  intelligences  at  work 
to  find  him ;  the  Seine  might  be  dragged,  les 
misfrables  turned  over  at  the  Morgue ;  a  minute 
description  of  him  would  be  in  every  detective's 
pocket ;  and  he  —  in  M.  Donne's  family  tomb ! 

Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  here  he  was 
last  seen ;  from  this  point  a  keen  detective 
would  naturally  work  up  the  case.  Then  might 
not  the  undertaker  return  for  the  candlestick, 
probably  not  left  by  design  ?  Or,  again,  might 
not  M.  Dorine  send  fresh  wreaths  of  flowers,  to 
take  the  place  of  those  which  now  diffused 
a  pungent,  aromatic  odor  throughout  the  cham- 
ber ?  Ah !  what  unlikely  chances  !  But  if  one 
of  these  things  did  not  happen  speedily,  it  had 
better  never  happen.  How  long  could  he  keep 
life  in  himself  ? 

With  his  pocket-knife  Wentworth  cut  the 
half-burned  candle  into  four  equal  parts.  "  To- 
night," he  meditated,  "  I  will  eat  the  first  of 
these  pieces ;  to-morrow,  the  second  ;  to-morrow 


152  A   STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE 

evening,  the  third ;  the  next  day,  the  fourth ; 
and  then  —  then  I  '11  wait  !  " 

He  had  taken  no  breakfast  that  morning,  un- 
less a  cup  of  coffee  can  be  called  a  breakfast. 
He  had  never  been  very  hungry  before.  He 
was  ravenously  hungry  now.  But  he  postponed 
the  meal  as  long  as  practicable.  It  must  have 
been  near  midnight,  according  to  his  calcula- 
tion, when  he  determined  to  try  the  first  of  his 
four  singular  repasts.  The  bit  of  white-wax 
was  tasteless ;  but  it  served  its  purpose. 

His  appetite  for  the  time  appeased,  he  found 
a  new  discomfort.  The  humidity  of  the  walls, 
and  the  wind  that  crept  through  the  unseen 
ventilator,  chilled  him  to  the  bone.  To  keep 
walking  was  his  only  resource.  A  kind  of 
drowsiness,  too,  occasionally  came  over  him. 
It  took  all  his  will  to  fight  it  off.  To  sleep,  he 
felt,  was  to  die  ;  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  live. 

The  strangest  fancies  flitted  through  his  head 
as  he  groped  up  and  down  the  stone  floor  of 
the  dungeon,  feeling  his  way  along  the  wall  to 
avoid  the  sepulchres.  Voices  that  had  long 
been  silent  spoke  words  that  had  long  been 
forgotten  ;  faces  he  had  known  in  childhood 
grew  palpable  against  the  dark.  His  whole  life 
in  detail  was  unrolled  before  him  like  a  pano- 
rama ;  the  changes  of  a  year,  with  its  burden  of 


A   STRUGGLE   FOR   LIFE  153 

love  and  death,  its  sweets  and  its  bitternesses, 
were  epitomized  in  a  single  second.  The  desire 
to  sleep  had  left  him,  but  the  keen  hunger 
came  again. 

"  It  must  be  near  morning  now,"  he  mused  ; 
"perhaps  the  sun  is  just  gilding  the  towers  of 
Notre  Dame ;  or  may  be  a  dull,  drizzling  rain 
is  beating  on  Paris,  sobbing  on  these  mounds 
above  me.  Paris  !  it  seems  like  a  dream.  Did 
I  ever  walk  in  its  gay  boulevards  in  the  golden 
air  ?  Oh,  the  delight  and  pain  and  passion  of 
that  sweet  human  life  !  " 

Philip  became  conscious  that  the  gloom,  the 
silence,  and  the  cold  were  gradually  conquering 
him.  The  feverish  activity  of  his  brain  brought 
on  a  reaction.  He  grew  lethargic ;  he  sunk 
down  on  the  steps,  and  thought  of  nothing. 
His  hand  fell  by  chance  on  one  of  the  pieces  of 
candle ;  he  grasped  it  and  devoured  it  mechani- 
cally. This  revived  him.  "  How  strange,"  he 
thought,  "that  I  am  not  thirsty.  Is  it  possible 
that  the  dampness  of  the  walls,  which  I  must 
inhale  with  every  breath,  has  supplied  the  need 
of  water  ?  Not  a  drop  has  passed  my  lips  for 
two  days,  and  still  I  experience  no  thirst.  That 
drowsiness,  thank  Heaven,  has  gone.  I  think 
I  was  never  wide  awake  until  this  hour.  It 
would  be  an  anodyne  like  poison  that  could 
weigh  down  my  eyelids.  No  doubt  the  dread 
of  sleep  has  something  to  do  with  this." 


154  A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE 

The  minutes  were  like  hours.  Now  he 
walked  as  briskly  as  he  dared  up  and  down  the 
tomb  ;  now  he  rested  against  the  door.  More 
than  once  he  was  tempted  to  throw  himself 
upon  the  stone  coffin  that  held  Julie,  and  make 
no  further  struggle  for  his  life. 

Only  one  piece  of  candle  remained.  He  had 
eaten  the  third  portion,  not  to  satisfy  hunger, 
but  from  a  precautionary  motive.  He  had 
taken  it  as  a  man  takes  some  disagreeable  drug 
upon  the  result  of  which  hangs  safety.  The 
time  was  rapidly  approaching  when  even  this 
poor  substitute  for  nourishment  would  be  ex- 
hausted. He  delayed  that  moment.  He  gave 
himself  a  long  fast  this  time.  The  half -inch 
of  candle  which  he  held  in  his  hand  was  a 
sacred  thing  to  him.  It  was  his  last  defence 
against  death. 

Finally,  with  such  a  sinking  at  heart  as  he 
had  not  known  before,  he  raised  it  to  his  lips. 
Then  he  paused,  then  he  hurled  the  fragment 
across  the  tomb,  then  the  oaken  door  was  flung 
open,  and  Philip,  with  dazzled  eyes,  saw  M. 
Dorine's  form  sharply  defined  against  the  blue 
sky. 

When  they  led  him  out,  half  blinded,  into 
the  broad  daylight,  M.  Dorine  noticed  that 
Philip's  hair,  which  a  short  time  since  was  as 
black  as  a  crow's  wing,  had  actually  turned 


A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE  155 

gray  in  places.  The  man's  eyes,  too,  had 
faded  ;  the  darkness  had  dimmed  their  lustre. 

"And  how  long  was  he  really  confined  in 

the  tomb  ?  "  I  asked,  as  Mr.  H concluded 

the  story. 

"Just  one  hour  and  twenty  minutes ! "  re- 
plied Mr.  H ,  smiling  blandly. 

As  he  spoke,  the  Lilliputian  sloops,  with 
their  sails  all  blown  out  like  white  roses,  came 
floating  bravely  into  port,  and  Philip  Went- 
worth  lounged  by  us,  wearily,  in  the  pleasant 
April  sunshine. 

Mr.  H 's  narrative  haunted  me.  Here 

was  a  man  who  had  undergone  a  strange  or- 
deal. Here  was  a  man  whose  sufferings  were 
unique.  His  was  no  threadbare  experience. 
Eighty  minutes  had  seemed  like  two  days  to 
him  !  If  he  had  really  been  immured  two  days 
in  the  tomb,  the  story,  from  my  point  of  view, 
would  have  lost  its  tragic  value. 

After  this  it  was  natural  that  I  should  regard 
Mr.  Wentworth  with  stimulated  curiosity.  As 
I  met  him  from  day  to  day,  passing  through 
the  Common  with  that  same  introspective  air, 
there  was  something  in  his  loneliness  which 
touched  me.  I  wondered  that  I  had  not  read 
before  in  his  pale,  meditative  face  some  such 


156  A  STRUGGLE   FOR  LIFE 

sad  history  as  Mr.  H had  confided  to  me. 

I  formed  the  resolution  of  speaking  to  him, 
though  with  no  very  lucid  purpose.  One  morn- 
ing we  came  face  to  face  at  the  intersection  of 
two  paths.  He  halted  courteously  to  allow  me 
the  precedence. 

"  Mr.  Went  worth,"  I  began,  "I"  — 

He  interrupted  me. 

"  My  name,  sir,"  he  said,  in  an  off-hand  man- 
ner, "is  Jones." 

"Jo-Jo-Jones  !  "  I  gasped. 

"  No,  not  Joseph  Jones,"  he  returned,  with  a 
glacial  air  —  "  Frederick." 

A  dim  light,  in  which  the  perfidy  of  my 

friend  H was  becoming  discernible,  began 

to  break  upon  my  mind. 

It  will  probably  be  a  standing  wonder  to  Mr. 
Frederick  Jones  why  a  strange  man  accosted 
him  one  morning  on  the  Common  as  "  Mr. 
Wentworth,"  and  then  dashed  madly  down  the 
nearest  foot-path  and  disappeared  in  the  crowd. 

The  fact  is,  I  had  been  duped  by  Mr.  H , 

who  is  a  gentleman  of  literary  proclivities,  and 
has,  it  is  whispered,  become  somewhat  de- 
mented in  brooding  over  the  Great  American 
Novel — not  yet  hatched.  He  had  actually 
tried  the  effect  of  one  of  his  chapters  on  me ! 

My  hero,  as  I  subsequently  learned,  was  a 
commonplace  young  person,  who  had  some 


A   STRUGGLE   FOR   LIFE  157 

connection,  I  know  not  what,  with  the  building 
of  that  graceful  granite  bridge  which  spans  the 
crooked  silver  lake  in  the  Public  Garden. 

When  I  think  of  the  readiness  with  which 

Mr.    H built   up   his   airy   fabric   on  my 

credulity,  I  feel  half  inclined  to  laugh,  though  I 
am  deeply  mortified  at  having  been  the  unre- 
sisting victim  of  his  Black  Art. 


QUITE   SO 


OF  course  that  was  not  his  name.  Even  in 
the  State  of  Maine,  where  it  is  still  a  custom  to 
maim  a  child  for  life  by  christening  him  Arioch 
or  Shadrach  or  Ephraim,  nobody  would  dream 
of  calling  a  boy  "Quite  So."  It  was  merely  a 
nickname  which  we  gave  him  in  camp ;  but  it 
stuck  to  him  with  such  bur-like  tenacity,  and  is 
so  inseparable  from  my  memory  of  him,  that  I 
do  not  think  I  could  write  definitely  of  John 
Bladburn  if  I  were  to  call  him  anything  but 
"Quite  So." 

It  was  one  night  shortly  after  the  first  battle 
of  Bull  Run.  The  Army  of  the  Potomac,  shat- 
tered, stunned,  and  forlorn,  was  back  in  its  old 
quarters  behind  the  earthworks.  The  melan- 
choly line  of  ambulances  bearing  our  wounded 
to  Washington  was  not  done  creeping  over 
Long  Bridge;  the  blue  smocks  and  the  gray 
still  lay  in  windrows  on  the  field  of  Manassas ; 


QUITE  SO  159 

and  the  gloom  that  weighed  down  our  hearts 
was  like  the  fog  that  stretched  along  the  bosom 
of  the  Potomac,  and  enfolded  the  valley  of  the 
Shenandoah.  A  drizzling  rain  had  set  in  at 
twilight,  and,  growing  bolder  with  the  darkness, 
was  beating  a  dismal  tattoo  on  the  tent  —  the 
tent  of  Mess  6,  Company  A,  -th  Regiment,  N.  Y. 
Volunteers.  Our  mess,  consisting  originally 
of  eight  men,  was  reduced  to  four.  Little  Billy, 
as  one  of  the  boys  grimly  remarked,  had  con- 
cluded to  remain  at  Manassas ;  Corporal  Steele 
we  had  to  leave  at  Fairfax  Court-House,  shot 
through  the  hip  ;  Hunter  and  Suydam  we  had 
said  good-by  to  that  afternoon.  "  Tell  Johnny 
Reb,"  says  Hunter,  lifting  up  the  leather  side- 
piece  of  the  ambulance,  "  that  I  '11  be  back 
again  as  soon  as  I  get  anew  leg."  But  Suydam 
said  nothing ;  he  only  unclosed  his  eyes  lan- 
guidly and  smiled  farewell  to  us. 

The  four  of  us  who  were  left  alive  and  unhurt 
that  shameful  July  day  sat  gloomily  smoking 
our  brier- wood  pipes,  thinking  our  thoughts, 
and  listening  to  the  rain  pattering  against  the 
canvas.  That,  and  the  occasional  whine  of  a 
hungry  cur,  foraging  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
camp  for  a  stray  bone,  alone  broke  the  silence, 
save  when  a  vicious  drop  of  rain  detached  itself 
meditatively  from  the  ridge-pole  of  the  tent, 
and  fell  upon  the  wick  of  our  tallow  candle, 


160  QUITE  SO 

making  it  "cuss,"  as  Ned  Strong  described  it. 
The  candle  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  its  most 
profane  fits  when  Blakely,  knocking  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe  and  addressing  no  one  in  particu- 
lar, but  giving  breath,  unconsciously  as  it  were, 
to  the  re'sult  of  his  cogitations,  observed  that 
"it  was  considerable  of  a  fizzle." 

"The  'on  to  Richmond'  business?" 

"Yes." 

"I  wonder  what  they'll  do  about  it  over 
yonder,"  said  Curtis,  pointing  over  his  right 
shoulder.  By  "  over  yonder "  he  meant  the 
North  in  general  and  Massachusetts  especially. 
Curtis  was  a  Boston  boy,  and  his  sense  of 
locality  was  so  strong  that,  during  all  his  wan- 
derings in  Virginia,  I  do  not  believe  there  was 
a  moment,  day  or  night,  when  he  could  not 
have  made  a  bee-line  for  Faneuil  Hall. 

"  Do  about  it  ? "  cried  Strong.  "  They  '11 
make  about  two  hundred  thousand  blue  flannel 
trousers  and  send  them  along,  each  pair  with  a 
man  in  it — all  the  short  men  in  the  long 
trousers,  and  all  the  tall  men  in  the  short  ones," 
he  added,  ruefully  contemplating  his  own  leg- 
gear,  which  scarcely  reached  to  his  ankles. 

"  That 's  so,"  said  Blakely.  "  Just  now, 
when  I  was  tackling  the  commissary  for  an 
extra  candle,  I  saw  a  crowd  of  new  fellows 
drawing  blankets." 


QUITE  SO  161 

"I  say  there,  drop  that!"  cried  Strong. 
"  All  right,  sir,  didn't  know  it  was  you,"  he 
added  hastily,  seeing  it  was  Lieutenant  Haines 
who  had  thrown  back  the  flap  of  the  tent,  and 
let  in  a  gust  of  wind  and  rain  that  threatened 
the  most  serious  bronchial  consequences  to  our 
discontented  tallow  dip. 

"  You  're  to  bunk  in  here,"  said  the  lieu- 
tenant, speaking  to  some  one  outside.  The 
some  one  stepped  in,  and  Haines  vanished  in. 
the  darkness. 

When  Strong  had  succeeded  in  restoring  the 
candle  to  consciousness,  the  light  fell  upon  a 
tall,  shy-looking  man  of  about  thirty-five,  with 
long,  hay-colored  beard  and  mustache,  upon 
which  the  rain-drops  stood  in  clusters,  like  the 
night-dew  on  patches  of  cobweb  in  a  meadow. 
It  was  an  honest  face,  with  unworldly  sort  of 
blue  eyes,  that  looked  out  from  under  the  broad 
visor  of  the  infantry  cap.  With  a  deferential 
glance  towards  us,  the  new-comer  unstrapped 
his  knapsack,  spread  his  blanket  over  it,  and 
sat  down  unobtrusively. 

"  Rather  damp  night  out,"  remarked  Blakely, 
whose  strong  hand  was  supposed  to  be  conver- 
sation. 

"  Quite  so,"  replied  the  stranger,  not  curtly, 
but  pleasantly,  and  with  an  air  as  if  he  had 
said  all  there  was  to  be  said  about  it. 


162  QUITE  SO 

"  Come  from  the  North  recently  ?  "  inquired 
Blakely,  after  a  pause. 

"Yes." 

"  From  any  place  in  particular  ?  " 

"  Maine." 

"  People  considerably  stirred  up  down 
there  ? "  continued  Blakely,  determined  not  to 
give  up. 

"Quite  so." 

Blakely  threw  a  puzzled  look  over  the  tent, 
and  seeing  Ned  Strong  on  the  broad  grin, 
frowned  severely.  Strong  instantly  assumed 
an  abstracted  air,  and  began  humming  softly — 

"  O  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light." 

"The  State  of  Maine,"  observed  Blakely, 
with  a  certain  defiance  of  manner  not  at  all 
necessary  in  discussing  a  geographical  question, 
"is  a  pleasant  State." 

"  In  summer,"  suggested  the  stranger. 

"  In  summer,  I  mean,"  returned  Blakely 
with  animation,  thinking  he  had  broken  the 
ice.  "Cold  as  blazes  in  winter,  though  — 
is  n't  it  ? " 

The  new  recruit  merely  nodded. 

Blakely  eyed  the  man  homicidally  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then,  smiling  one  of  those  smiles  of 
simulated  gayety  which  the  novelists  inform  us 
are  more  tragic  than  tears,  turned  upon  him 
with  withering  irony. 


QUITE   SO  163 

"Trust  you  left  the  old  folks  pretty  com- 
fortable ? " 

"  Dead." 

"The  old  folks  dead!" 

"  Quite  so." 

Blakely  made  an  abrupt  dive  for  his  blanket, 
tucked  it  around  him  with  painful  precision,  and 
was  heard  no  more. 

Just  then  the  bugle  sounded  "  lights  out,"  — 
bugle  answering  bugle  in  far-off  camps.  When 
our  not  elaborate  night-toilets  were  complete, 
Strong  threw  somebody  else's  old  boot  at  the 
candle  with  infallible  aim,  and  darkness  took 
possession  of  the  tent.  Ned,  who  lay  on  my 
left,  presently  reached  over  to  me,  and  whis- 
pered, "  I  say,  our  friend  '  Quite  so '  is  a  gar- 
rulous old  boy !  He  '11  talk  himself  to  death 
some  of  these  odd  times,  if  he  isn't  careful. 
How  he  did  run  on  !  " 

The  next  morning,  when  I  opened  my  eyes, 
the  new  member  of  Mess  6  was  sitting  on  his 
knapsack,  combing  his  blonde  beard  with  a  horn 
comb.  He  nodded  pleasantly  to  me,  and  to 
each  of  the  boys  as  they  woke  up,  one  by  one. 
Blakely  did  not  appear  disposed  to  renew  the 
animated  conversation  of  the  previous  night; 
but  while  he  was  gone  to  make  a  requisition  for 
what  was  in  pure  sarcasm  called  coffee,  Curtis 
ventured  to  ask  the  man  his  name. 


164  QUITE   SO 

"Bladburn,  John,"  was  the  reply. 

"That 's  rather  an  unwieldy  name  for  every, 
day  use,"  put  in  Strong.  "  If  it  would  n't  hurt 
your  feelings,  I  'd  like  to  call  you  Quite  So  — 
for  short.  Don't  say  no,  if  you  don't  like  it. 
Is  it  agreeable  ?  " 

Bladburn  gave  a  little  laugh,  all  to  himself, 
seemingly,  and  was  about  to  say,  "  Quite  so," 
when  he  caught  at  the  words,  blushed  like 
a  girl,  and  nodded  a  sunny  assent  to  Strong. 
From  that  day  until  the  end,  the  sobriquet 
clung  to  him. 

The  disaster  at  Bull  Run  was  followed,  as 
the  reader  knows,  by  a  long  period  of  masterly 
inactivity,  so  far  as  the  Army  of  the  Potomac 
was  concerned.  McDowell,  a  good  soldier,  but 
unlucky,  retired  to  Arlington  Heights,  and  Mc- 
Clellan,  who  had  distinguished  himself  in  West- 
ern Virginia,  took  command  of  the  forces  in 
front  of  Washington,  and  bent  his  energies  to 
reorganizing  the  demoralized  troops.  It  was 
a  dreary  time  to  the  people  of  the  North,  who 
looked  fatuously  from  week  to  week  for  "the 
fall  of  Richmond  ; "  and  it  was  a  dreary  time  to 
the  denizens  of  that  vast  city  of  tents  and  forts 
which  stretched  in  a  semicircle  before  the  be- 
leaguered capital  —  so  tedious  and  soul-wearing 
a  time  that  the  hardships  of  forced  marches  and 
the  horrors  of  battle  became  desirable  things  to 
them. 


QUITE   SO  165 

Roll-call  morning  and  evening,  guard-duty, 
dress-parades,  an  occasional  reconnoissance, 
dominoes,  wrestling-matches,  and  such  rude 
games  as  could  be  carried  on  in  camp  made  up 
the  sum  of  our  lives.  The  arrival  of  the  mail 
with  letters  and  papers  from  home  was  the 
event  of  the  day.  We  noticed  that  Bladburn 
neither  wrote  nor  received  any  letters.  When 
the  rest  of  the  boys  were  scribbling  away  for 
dear  life,  with  drum-heads  and  knapsacks  and 
cracker-boxes  for  writing-desks,  he  would  sit 
serenely  smoking  his  pipe,  but  looking  out  on 
us  through  rings  of  smoke  with  a  face  expres- 
sive of  the  tenderest  interest. 

"  Look  here,  Quite  So,"  Strong  would  say, 
"the  mail-bag  closes  in  half  an  hour.  Ain't 
you  going  to  write  ? " 

"I  believe  not  to-day,"  Bladburn  would  re- 
ply, as  if  he  had  written  yesterday,  or  would 
write  to-morrow :  but  he  never  wrote. 

He  had  become  a  great  favorite  with  us,  and 
with  all  the  officers  of  the  regiment.  He 
talked  less  than  any  man  I  ever  knew,  but 
there  was  nothing  sinister  or  sullen  in  his  reti- 
cence. It  was  sunshine — warmth  and  bright- 
ness, but  no  voice.  Unassuming  and  modest 
to  the  verge  of  shyness,  he  impressed  every 
one  as  a  man  of  singular  pluck  and  nerve. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Curtis  to  me  one  day, 


166  QUITE   SO 

"  that  that  fellow  Quite  So  is  clear  grit,  and  when 
we  come  to  close  quarters  with  our  Palmetto 
brethren  over  yonder,  he  '11  do  something  devil- 
ish?" 

"What  makes  you  think  so  ? " 

"  Well,  nothing  quite  explainable ;  the  exas- 
perating coolness  of  the  man,  as  much  as  any- 
thing. This  morning  the  boys  were  teasing 
Muffin  Fan  [a  small  mulatto  girl  who  used  to 
bring  muffins  into  camp  three  times  a  week,  — 
at  the  peril  of  her  life !  ]  and  Jemmy  Blunt  of 
Company  K  —  you  know  him  —  was  rather 
rough  on  the  girl,  when  Quite  So,  who  had 
been  reading  under  a  tree,  shut  one  finger  in 
his  book,  walked  over  to  where  the  boys  were 
skylarking,  and  with  the  smile  of  a  juvenile 
angel  on  his  face  lifted  Jemmy  out  of  that  and 
set  him  down  gently  in  front  of  his  own  tent. 
There  Blunt  sat  speechless,  staring  at  Quite 
So,  who  was  back  again  under  the  tree,  pegging 
away  at  his  little  Latin  grammar." 

That  Latin  grammar!  He  always  had  it 
about  him,  reading  it  or  turning  over  its  dog's- 
eared  pages  at  odd  intervals  and  in  out-of-the- 
way  places.  Half  a  dozen  times  a  day  he  would 
draw  it  out  from  the  bosom  of  his  blouse,  which 
had  taken  the  shape  of  the  book  just  over  the 
left  breast,  look  at  it  as  if  to  assure  himself  it 
was  all  right,  and  then  put  the  thing  back.  At 
night  the  volume  lay  beneath  his  pillow.  The 


QUITE   SO  167 

first  thing  in  the  morning,  before  he  was  well 
awake,  his  hand  would  go  groping  instinctively 
under  his  knapsack  in  search  of  it 

A  devastating  curiosity  seized  upon  us  boys 
concerning  that  Latin  grammar,  for  we  had  dis- 
covered the  nature  of  the  book.  Strong  wanted 
to  steal  it  one  night,  but  concluded  not  to.  "  In 
the  first  place,"  reflected  Strong,  "I  haven't 
the  heart  to  do  it,  and  in  the  next  place  I 
have  n't  the  moral  courage.  Quite  So  would 
placidly  break  every  bone  in  my  body."  And 
I  believe  Strong  was  not  far  out  of  the  way. 

Sometimes  I  was  vexed  with  myself  for  al- 
lowing this  tall,  simple-hearted  country  fellow 
to  puzzle  me  so  much.  And  yet,  was  he  a 
simple-hearted  country  fellow  ?  City  bred  he 
certainly  was  not ;  but  his  manner,  in  spite  of 
his  awkwardness,  had  an  indescribable  air  of 
refinement.  Now  and  then,  too,  he  dropped  a 
word  or  a  phrase  that  showed  his  familiarity 
with  unexpected  lines  of  reading.  "  The  other 
day,"  said  Curtis,  with  the  slightest  elevation 
of  eyebrow,  "  he  had  the  cheek  to  correct  my 
Latin  for  me."  In  short,  Quite  So  was  a  daily 
problem  to  the  members  of  Mess  6.  When- 
ever he  was  absent,  and  Blakely  and  Curtis  and 
Strong  and  I  got  together  in  the  tent,  we  dis- 
cussed him,  evolving  various  theories  to  explain 
why  he  never  wrote  to  anybody  and  why  no- 
body ever  wrote  to  him.  Had  the  man  com- 


168  QUITE   SO 

mitted  some  terrible  crime,  and  fled  to  the 
army  to  hide  his  guilt  ?  Blakely  suggested  that 
he  must  have  murdered  "the  old  folks."  What 
did  he  mean  by  eternally  conning  that  tattered 
Latin  grammar  ?  And  was  his  name  Bladburn, 
anyhow?  Even  his  imperturbable  amiability 
became  suspicious.  And  then  his  frightful  re,- 
ticence !  If  he  was  the  victim  of  any  deep 
grief  or  crushing  calamity,  why  did  n't  he  seem 
unhappy  ?  What  business  had  he  to  be  cheer- 
ful ? 

"  It 's  my  opinion,"  said  Strong,  "  that  he 's 
a  rival  Wandering  Jew ;  the  original  Jacobs,  you 
know,  was  a  dark  fellow." 

Blakely  inferred  from  something  Bladburn 
had  said,  or  something  he  had  not  said  —  which 
was  more  likely  —  that  he  had  been  a  school- 
master at  some  period  of  his  life. 

"  Schoolmaster  be  hanged !  "  was  Strong's 
comment.  "  Can  you  fancy  a  schoolmaster  go- 
ing about  conjugating  baby  verbs  out  of  a  dratted 
little  spelling-book  ?  No,  Quite  So  has  evi- 
dently been  a  —  a  —  Blest  if  I  can  imagine 
what  he  's  been  !  " 

Whatever  John  Bladburn  had  been,  he  was  a 
lonely  man.  Whenever  I  want  a  type  of  per- 
fect human  isolation,  I  shall  think  of  him,  as 
he  was  in  those  days,  moving  remote,  self-con- 
tained, and  alone  in  the  midst  of  two  hundred 
thousand  men. 


II 


THE  Indian  summer,  with  its  infinite  beauty 
and  tenderness,  came  like  a  reproach  that  year  to 
Virginia.  The  foliage,  touched  here  and  there 
with  prismatic  tints,  drooped  motionless  in  the 
golden  haze.  The  delicate  Virginia  creeper 
was  almost  minded  to  put  forth  its  scarlet  buds 
again.  No  wonder  the  lovely  phantom  —  this 
dusky  Southern  sister  of  the  pale  Northern 
June  —  lingered  not  long  with  us,  but,  filling 
the  once  peaceful  glens  and  valleys  with  her 
pathos,  stole  away  rebukefully  before  the  sav- 
age enginery  of  man. 

The  preparations  that  had  been  going  on  for 
months  in  arsenals  and  foundries  at  the  North 
were  nearly  completed.  For  weeks  past  the  air 
had  been  filled  with  rumors  of  an  advance ;  but 
the  rumor  of  to-day  refuted  the  rumor  of  yes- 
terday, and  the  Grand  Army  did  not  move. 
Heintzelman's  corps  was  constantly  folding  its 
tents,  like  the  Arabs,  and  as  silently  stealing 
away ;  but  somehow  it  was  always  in  the  same 
place  the  next  morning.  One  day,  at  last,  or- 
ders came  down  for  our  brigade  to  move. 


170  QUITE   SO 

"  We  're  going  to  Richmond,  boys  !  "  shouted 
Strong,  thrusting  his  head  in  at  the  tent  ;  and 
we  all  cheered  and  waved  our  caps  like  mad. 
You  see,  Big  Bethel  and  Bull  Run  and  Ball's 
Bluff  (the  bloody  B's,  as  we  used  to  call  them) 
had  n't  taught  us  any  better  sense. 

Rising  abruptly  from  the  plateau,  to  the  left 
of  our  encampment,  was  a  tall  hill  covered  with 
a  stunted  growth  of  red-oak,  persimmon,  and 
chestnut.  The  night  before  we  struck  tents  I 
climbed  up  to  the  crest  to  take  a  parting  look 
at  a  spectacle  which  custom  had  not  been  able 
to  rob  of  its  enchantment.  There,  at  my  feet, 
and  extending  miles  and  miles  away,  lay  the 
camps  of  the  Grand  Army,  with  their  watch- 
fires  reflected  luridly  against  the  sky.  Thou- 
sands of  lights  were  twinkling  in  every  direction, 
some  nestling  in  the  valley,  some  like  fireflies 
beating  their  wings  and  palpitating  among  the 
trees,  and  others  stretching  in  parallel  lines  and 
curves,  like  the  street-lamps  of  a  city.  Some- 
where, far  off,  a  band  was  playing,  at  intervals  it 
seemed ;  and  now  and  then,  nearer  to,  a  silvery 
strain  from  a  bugle  shot  sharply  up  through  the 
night,  and  appeared  to  lose  itself  like  a  rocket 
among  the  stars  —  the  patient,  untroubled 
stars.  Suddenly  a  hand  was  laid  upon  my  arm. 

"I  'd  like  to  say  a  word  to  you,"  said  Blad- 
burn. 


QUITE   SO  171 

With  a  little  start  of  surprise,  I  made  room, 
for  him  on  the  fallen  tree  where  I  was  seated. 

"  I  may  n't  get  another  chance,"  he  said, 
"  You  and  the  boys  have  been  very  kind  to  me, 
kinder  than  I  deserve;  but  sometimes  I've 
fancied  that  my  not  saying  anything  about  my- 
self had  given  you  the  idea  that  all  was  not 
right  in  my  past.  I  want  to  say  that  I  came 
down  to  Virginia  with  a  clean  record." 

"  We  never  really  doubted  it,  Bladburn." 

"If  I  didn't  write  home,"  he  continued,  "it 
was  because  I  hadn't  any  home,  neither  kith 
nor  kin.  When  I  said  the  old  folks  were  dead, 
I  said  it.  Am  I  boring  you  ?  If  I  thought  I 
was  "  — 

"No,  Bladburn.  I  have  often  wanted  you 
to  talk  to  me  about  yourself,  not  from  idle  curi- 
osity, I  trust,  but  because  I  liked  you  that  rainy 
night  when  you  came  to  camp,  and  have  gone 
on  liking  you  ever  since.  This  is  n't  too  much 
to  say,  when  only  Heaven  knows  how  soon  I 
may  be  past  saying  it  or  you  listening  to  it." 

"  That 's  it,"  said  Bladburn  hurriedly ;  "  that 's 
why  I  want  to  talk  with  you.  I  've  a  fancy  that 
I  sha'n't  come  out  of  our  first  battle." 

The  words  gave  me  a  queer  start,  for  I  had 
been  trying  several  days  to  throw  off  a  similar 
presentiment  concerning  him  —  a  foolish  pre- 
sentiment that  grew  out  of  a  dream. 


172  QUITE   SO 

"  In  case  anything  of  that  kind  turns  up,"  he 
continued,  "  I  'd  like  you  to  have  my  Latin 
grammar  here  —  you  've  seen  me  reading  it. 
You  might  stick  it  away  in  a  bookcase,  for  the 
sake  of  old  times.  It  goes  against  me  to  think 
of  it  falling  into  rough  hands  or  being  kicked 
about  camp  and  trampled  underfoot." 

He  was  drumming  softly  with  his  fingers  on 
the  volume  in  the  bosom  of  his  blouse. 

"  I  did  n't  intend  to  speak  of  this  to  a  living 
soul,"  he  went  on,  motioning  me  not  to  answer 
him  ;  "  but  something  took  hold  of  me  to-night 
and  made  me  follow  you  up  here.  Perhaps  if  I 
told  you  all,  you  would  be  the  more  willing  to 
look  after  the  little  book  in  case  it  goes  ill  with 
me.  When  the  war  broke  out  I  was  teaching 
school  down  in  Maine,  in  the  same  village 
where  my  father  was  schoolmaster  before  me. 
The  old  man  when  he  died  left  me  quite  alone. 
I  lived  pretty  much  by  myself,  having  no 
interests  outside  of  the  district  school,  which 
seemed  in  a  manner  my  personal  property. 
Eight  years  ago  last  spring  a  new  pupil  was 
brought  to  the  school,  a  slight  slip  of  a  girl, 
with  a  sad  kind  of  face  and  quiet  ways.  Per- 
haps it  was  because  she  wasn't  very  strong, 
and  perhaps  because  she  was  n't  used  over  well 
by  those  who  had  charge  of  her,  or  perhaps  it 
was  because  my  life  was  lonely,  that  my  heart 


QUITE   SO  173 

warmed  to  the  child.  It  all  seems  like  a  dream 
now,  since  that  April  morning  when  little  Mary 
stood  in  front  of  my  desk  with  her  pretty  eyes 
looking  down  bashfully  and  her  soft  hair  falling 
over  her  face.  One  day  I  look  up,  and  six 
years  have  gone  by  —  as  they  go  by  in  dreams 
—  and  among  the  scholars  is  a  tall  girl  of  sixteen, 
with  serious,  womanly  eyes  which  I  cannot 
trust  myself  to  look  upon.  The  old  life  has 
come  to  an  end.  The  child  has  become  a 
woman  and  can  teach  the  master  now.  So 
help  me  Heaven,  I  didn't  know  that  I  loved 
her  until  that  day  ! 

"  Long  after  the  children  had  gone  home  I 
sat  in  the  school-room  with  my  face  resting  on 
my  hands.  There  was  her  desk,  the  afternoon 
shadows  falling  across  it.  It  never  looked 
empty  and  cheerless  before.  I  went  and  stood 
by  the  low  chair,  as  I  had  stood  hundreds  of 
times.  On  the  desk  was  a  pile  of  books,  ready 
to  be  taken  away,  and  among  the  rest  a  small 
Latin  grammar  which  we  had  studied  together. 
What  little  despairs  and  triumphs  and  happy 
hours  were  associated  with  it !  I  took  it  up 
curiously,  as  if  it  were  some  gentle  dead  thing, 
and  turned  over  the  pages,  and  could  hardly 
see  them.  Turning  the  pages,  idly  so,  I  came 
to  a  leaf  on  which  something  was  written  with 
ink,  in  the  familiar  girlish  hand.  It  was  only 


174  QUITE   SO 

the  words  '  Dear  John,'  through  which  she  had 
drawn  two  hasty  pencil  lines  —  I  wish  she 
had  n't  drawn  those  lines !  "  added  Bladburn 
under  his  breath. 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  looking 
off  towards  the  camps,  where  the  lights  were 
fading  out  one  by  one. 

"  I  had  no  right  to  go  and  love  Mary.  I  was 
twice  her  age,  an  awkward,  unsocial  man,  that 
would  have  blighted  her  youth.  I  was  as 
wrong  as  wrong  can  be.  But  I  never  meant  to 
tell  her.  I  locked  the  grammar  in  my  desk  and 
the  secret  in  my  heart  for  a  year.  I  could  n't 
bear  to  meet  her  in  the  village,  and  kept  away 
from  every  place  where  she  was  likely  to  be. 
Then  she  came  to  me,  and  sat  down  at  my  feet 
penitently,  just  as  she  used  to  do  when  she  was 
a  child,  and  asked  what  she  had  done  to  anger 
me  ;  and  then,  Heaven  forgive  me !  I  told  her 
all,  and  asked  her  if  she  could  say  with  her  lips 
the  words  she  had  written,  and  she  nestled  in 
my  arms  all  a-trembling  like  a  bird,  and  said 
them  over  and  over  again. 

"When  Mary's  family  heard  of  our  engage- 
ment, there  was  trouble.  They  looked  higher 
for  Mary  than  a  middle-aged  schoolmaster.  No 
blame  to  them.  They  forbade  me  the  house, 
her  uncles  ;  but  we  met  in  the  village  and  at 
the  neighbors'  houses,  and  I  was  happy,  know- 


QUITE   SO  175 

ing  she  loved  me.  Matters  were  in  this  state 
when  the  war  came  on.  I  had  a  strong  call  to 
look  after  the  old  flag,  and  I  hung  my  head 
that  day  when  the  company  raised  in  our  vil- 
lage marched  by  the  school-house  to  the  rail- 
road station ;  but  I  could  n't  tear  myself  away. 
About  this  time  the  minister's  son,  who  had 
been  away  to  college,  came  to  the  village.  He 
met  Mary  here  and  there,  and  they  became 
great  friends.  He  was  a  likely  fellow,  near  her 
own  age,  and  it  was  natural  they  should  like 
each  other.  Sometimes  I  winced  at  seeing  him 
made  free  of  the  home  from  which  I  was  shut 
out;  then  I  would  open  the  grammar  at  the 
leaf  where  '  Dear  John '  was  written  up  in  the 
corner,  and  my  trouble  was  gone.  Mary  was 
sorrowful  and  pale  these  days,  and  I  think  her 
folks  were  worrying  her. 

"  It  was  one  evening  two  or  three  days  be- 
fore we  got  the  news  of  Bull  Run.  I  had  gone 
down  to  the  burying-ground  to  trim  the  spruce 
hedge  set  round  the  old  man's  lot,  and  was 
just  stepping  into  the  enclosure,  when  I  heard 
voices  from  the  opposite  side.  One  was  Mary's, 
and  the  other  I  knew  to  be  young  Marston's, 
the  minister's  son.  I  did  n't  mean  to  listen, 
but  what  Mary  was  saying  struck  me  dumb. 
We  must  never  meet  again,  she  was  saying  in 
a  wild  way.  We  must  say  good-by  here,  for- 


i;6  QUITE  SO 

ever,  — good-by,  good-by  !  And  I  could  hear 
her  sobbing.  Then,  presently,  she  said  hur- 
riedly, No,  no  ;  my  Jiand  !  Then  it  seemed  he 
kissed  her  hands,  and  the  two  parted,  one  going 
towards  the  parsonage,  and  the  other  out  by 
the  gate  near  where  I  stood. 

"  I  don't  know  how  long  I  stood  there,  but 
the  night-dews  had  wet  me  to  the  bone  when  I 
stole  out  of  the  graveyard  and  across  the  road 
to  the  school-house.  I  unlocked  the  door,  and 
took  the  Latin  grammar  from  the  desk  and  hid 
it  in  my  bosom.  There  was  not  a  sound  or  a 
light  anywhere  as  I  walked  out  of  the  village. 
And  now,"  said  Bladburn,  rising  suddenly  from 
the  tree-trunk,  "  if  the  little  book  ever  falls  in 
your  way,  won't  you  see  that  it  comes  to  no 
harm,  for  my  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  lit- 
tle woman  who  was  true  to  me  and  did  n't  love 
me?  Wherever  she  is  to-night,  God  bless 
her ! " 

As  we  descended  to  camp,  the  watch-fires 
were  burning  low  in  the  valleys  and  along  the 
hillsides,  and  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  the 
silent  tents  lay  bleaching  in  the  moonlight. 


Ill 

WE  imagined  that  the  throwing  forward  of 
our  brigade  was  the  initial  movement  of  a  gen- 
eral advance  of  the  army;  but  that,  as  the 
reader  will  remember,  did  not  take  place  until 
the  following  March.  The  Confederates  had 
fallen  back  to  Centreville  without  firing  a  shot, 
and  the  national  troops  were  in  possession  of 
Lewinsville,  Vienna,  and  Fairfax  Court-House. 
Our  new  position  was  nearly  identical  with  that 
which  we  had  occupied  on  the  night  previous 
to  the  battle  of  Bull  Run  —  on  the  old  turnpike 
road  to  Manassas,  where  the  enemy  was  sup- 
posed to  be  in  great  force.  With  a  field-glass 
we  could  see  the  Rebel  pickets  moving  in  a  belt 
of  woodland  on  our  right,  and  morning  and 
evening  we  heard  the  spiteful  roll  of  their 
snare-drums. 

Those  pickets  soon  became  a  nuisance  to  us. 
Hardly  a  night  passed  but  they  fired  upon  our 
outposts,  so  far  with  no  harmful  result;  but 
after  a  while  it  grew  to  be  a  serious  matter. 
The  Rebels  would  crawl  out  on  all-fours  from 
the  wood  into  a  field  covered  with  underbrush, 


1 78  QUITE   SO 

and  lie  there  in  the  dark  for  hours,  waiting  for 
a  shot.  Then  our  men  took  to  the  rifle-pits  — 
pits  ten  or  twelve  feet  long  by  four  or  five 
deep,  with  the  loose  earth  banked  up  a  few 
inches  high  on  the  exposed  sides.  All  the  pits 
bore  names,  more  or  less  felicitous,  by  which 
they  were  known  to  their  transient  tenants. 
One  was  called  "The  Pepper-Box,"  another 
"  Uncle  Sam's  Well,"  another  "  The  Reb-Trap," 
and  another,  I  am  constrained  to  say,  was 
named  after  a  not-to-be-mentioned  tropical  lo- 
cality. Though  this  rude  sort  of  nomenclature 
predominated,  there  was  no  lack  of  softer  titles, 
such  as  "  Fortress  Matilda  "  and  "  Castle  Mary," 
and  one  had,  though  unintentionally,  a  literary 
flavor  to  it,  "Blair's  Grave,"  which  was  not 
popularly  considered  as  reflecting  unpleasantly 
on  Nat  Blair,  who  had  assisted  .in  making  the 
excavation. 

Some  of  the  regiment  had  discovered  a  field 
of  late  corn  in  the  neighborhood,  and  used  to 
boil  a  few  ears  every  day,  while  it  lasted,  for 
the  boys  detailed  on  the  night-picket.  The 
corn-cobs  were  always  scrupulously  preserved 
and  mounted  on  the  parapets  of  the  pits. 
Whenever  a  Rebel  shot  carried  away  one  of 
these  barbette  guns,  there  was  swearing  in  that 
particular  trench.  Strong,  who  was  very  sen- 
sitive to  this  kind  of  disaster,  was  complaining 


QUITE   SO  179 

bitterly  one  morning,  because  he  had  lost  three 
"pieces  "  the  night  before. 

"There's  Quite  So,  now,"  said  Strong, 
"  when  a  Minie-ball  comes  ping !  and  knocks 
one  of  his  guns  to  flinders,  he  merely  smiles, 
and  does  n't  at  all  see  the  degradation  of  the 
thing." 

Poor  Bladburn !  As  I  watched  him  day  by 
day  going  about  his  duties,  in  his  shy,  cheery 
way,  with  a  smile  for  every  one  and  not  an  ex- 
tra word  for  anybody,  it  was  hard  to  believe  he 
was  the  same  man  who,  that  night  before  we 
broke  camp  by  the  Potomac,  had  poured  out  to 
me  the  story  of  his  love  and  sorrow  in  words 
that  burned  in  my  memory. 

While  Strong  was  speaking,  Blakely  lifted 
aside  the  flap  of  the  tent  and  looked  in  on  us. 

"Boys,  Quite  So  was  hurt  last  night,"  he 
said,  with  a  white  tremor  to  his  lip. 

"What!" 

"Shot  on  picket." 

"Why,  he  was  in  the  pit  next  to  mine,"  cried 
Strong. 

"  Badly  hurt  ? " 

"Badly  hurt." 

I  knew  he  was ;  I  need  not  have  asked  the 
question.  He  never  meant  to  go  back  to  New 
England ! 


l8o  QUITE   SO 

Bladburn  was  lying  on  the  stretcher  in  the 
hospital-tent.  The  surgeon  had  knelt  down  by 
him,  and  was  carefully  cutting  away  the  bosom 
of  his  blouse.  The  Latin  grammar,  stained 
and  torn,  slipped,  and  fell  to  the  floor.  Blad- 
burn gave  me  a  quick  glance.  I  picked  up  the 
book,  and  as  I  placed  it  in  his  hand,  the  icy  fin- 
gers closed  softly  over  mine.  He  was  sinking 
fast.  In  a  few  minutes  the  surgeon  finished 
his  examination.  When  he  rose  to  his  feet 
there  were  tears  on  the  weather-beaten  cheeks. 

"  My  poor  lad,"  he  blurted  out,  "  it 's  no  use. 
If  you've  anything  to  say,  say  it  now,  for 
you  Ve  nearly  done  with  this  world." 

Then  Bladburn  lifted  his  eyes  slowly  to  the 
surgeon,  and  the  old  smile  flitted  over  his  face 
as  he  murmured  — 

"Quite  so." 


TWO  BITES   AT  A   CHERRY 


As  they  both  were  Americans,  and  typical 
Americans,  it  ought  to  have  happened  in  their 
own  country.  But  destiny  has  no  nationality, 
and  consequently  no  patriotism ;  so  it  hap- 
pened in  Naples. 

When  Marcus  Whitelaw  strolled  out  of  his 
hotel  that  May  morning,  and  let  himself  drift 
with  the  crowd  along  the  Strada  del  Duomo 
until  he  reached  the  portals  of  the  ancient 
cathedral,  nothing  was  more  remote  from  his 
meditation  than  Mrs.  Rose  Mason.  He  had 
not  seen  her  for  fifteen  years,  and  he  had  not 
thought  of  her,  except  in  an  intermittent  fash- 
ion, for  seven  or  eight.  There  had,  however, 
been  a  period,  covering  possibly  four  years, 
when  he  had  thought  of  little  else.  During 
that  heavy  interim  he  had  gone  about  with  a 
pain  in  his  bosom  —  a  pain  that  had  been  very 
keen  at  the  beginning,  and  then  had  gradually 


182  TWO  BITES  AT  A  CHERRY 

lost  its  edge.  Later  on,  that  invisible  hand 
which  obliterates  even  the  deep-carved  grief  on 
headstones  effectually  smoothed  out  the  dent 
in  Whitelaw's  heart. 

Rose  Jenness  at  nineteen  had  been  singularly 
adapted  to  making  dents  in  certain  kinds  of 
hearts.  Her  candor  and  unselfishness,  her  dis- 
dain of  insincerity  in  others,  and  her  uncon- 
sciousness of  the  spells  she  cast  had  proved 
more  fatal  to  Whitelaw  than  the  most  studied 
coquetry  would  have  done.  In  the  deepest 
stress  of  his  trouble  he  was  denied  the  consola- 
tion of  being  able  to  reproach  her  with  duplicity. 
He  had  built  up  his  leaning  tower  of  hopes 
without  any  aid  from  her.  She  had  been  no- 
thing but  frank  and  unmisleading  from  first  to 
last.  Her  beauty  she  could  not  help.  She 
came  of  a  line  of  stately  men  and  handsome 
women.  Sir  Peter  Lely  painted  them  in  Charles 
the  Second's  time,  and  Copley  found  them 
ready  for  his  canvas  at  the  close  of  the  colonial 
period.  Through  some  remote  cross  of  Saxon 
and  Latin  blood,  the  women  of  this  family  had 
always  been  fair  and  the  men  dark.  In  Rose 
Jenness  the  two  characteristics  flowered.  When 
New  England  produces  a  blonde  with  the  eyes 
of  a  brunette,  the  world  cannot  easily  match 
her,  especially  if  she  have  that  rounded  slen- 
derness  of  figure  which  is  one  of  our  very 
best  Americanisms. 


TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY  183 

Without  this  blended  beauty,  which  came  to 
perfection  in  her  suddenly,  like  the  blossoms  on 
a  fruit-tree,  Whitelaw  would  have  loved  Rose 
all  the  same.  Indeed,  her  physical  loveliness 
had  counted  for  little  in  his  passion,  though  the 
loveliness  had  afterwards  haunted  him  almost 
maliciously.  That  she  was  fair  of  person  who 
had  so  many  gracious  traits  of  mind  and  dispo- 
sition was  a  matter  of  course.  He  had  been 
slower  than  others  in  detecting  the  charm  that 
wrapped  her  as  she  slipped  into  womanhood. 
They  had  grown  up  together  as  children,  and 
had  known  no  separation,  except  during  the 
three  years  Whitelaw  was  with  the  Army  of 
the  Potomac — an  absence  broken  by  several 
returns  to  the  North  on  recruiting  service,  and 
one  long  sojourn  after  a  dangerous  hurt  re- 
ceived at  Antietam.  He  never  knew  when  he 
began  to  love  Rose,  and  he  never  knew  the  exact 
moment  when  he  ceased  to  love  her.  But  be- 
tween these  two  indefinable  points  he  had  expe- 
rienced an  unhappiness  that  was  anything  but 
indefinite.  It  had  been  something  tangible  and 
measurable ;  and  it  had  changed  the  course  of 
his  career. 

Next  to  time,  there  is  no  surer  medicine  than 
hard  work  for  the  kind  of  disappointment  we 
have  indicated.  Unfortunately  for  Whitelaw, 
he  was  moderately  rich  by  inheritance,  and  when 


1 84  TWO   BITES   AT   A   CHERRY 

he  discovered  that  Rose's  candid  affection  was 
not  love,  he  could  afford  to  indulge  his  wretch- 
edness. He  had  been  anxious  for  distinction, 
for  her  sake ;  but  now  his  ambition  was  gone. 
Of  what  value  to  him  were  worldly  prizes,  if 
she  refused  to  share  them  ?  He  presently  with- 
drew from  the  legal  profession,  in  which  he  had 
given  promise  of  becoming  a  brilliant  pleader, 
who  had  pleaded  so  unsuccessfully  for  himself, 
and  went  abroad.  This  was  of  course  after 
the  war. 

It  was  not  her  fault  that  all  communication 
between  them  ceased  then  and  there.  He 
would  have  it  so.  The  affair  had  not  been 
without  its  bitterness  for  Rose.  Whitelaw  was 
linked  in  some  way  with  every  agreeable  re- 
miniscence of  her  life ;  she  could  not  remember 
the  time  when  she  was  not  fond  of  him.  There 
had  been  a  poignancy  in  the  regret  with  which 
she  had  seen  the  friend  who  was  dear  to  her 
transforming  himself  into  a  lover  for  whom  she 
did  not  care  in  the  least.  It  had  pained  her 
to  give  him  pain,  and  she  had  done  it  with  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

Eighteen  months  later,  Rose  was  Mrs.  Ma- 
son, tears  and  all.  Richard  Mason  was  a  Pa- 
cific Railroad  king  en  herbe,  with  a  palace  in 
San  Francisco,  whither  he  immediately  trans- 
ported his  bride.  The  news  reached  Whitelaw 


TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY  185 

in  Seville,  and  gave  him  a  twinge.  His  love, 
according  to  his  own  diagnosis,  was  already 
dead  ;  it  was  presumably,  then,  a  muscular  con- 
traction that  caused  it  to  turn  a  little  in  its 
coffin.  The  following  year  some  question  of 
investment  brought  him  back  to  the  United 
States,  where  he  travelled  extensively,  care- 
fully avoiding  California.  He  visited  Salt  Lake 
City,  however,  and  took  cynical  satisfaction  in 
observing  what  a  large  amount  of  connubial 
misery  there  was  to  the  square  foot.  Yet  when 
a  rumor  came  to  him,  some  time  subsequently, 
that  Rose  herself  was  not  very  happy  in  her 
marriage,  he  had  the  grace  to  be  sincerely 
sorry. 

"  The  poor  transplanted  Rose !  "  he  mur- 
mured. "  She  was  too  good  for  him ;  she  was 
too  good  for  anybody." 

This  was  four  years  after  she  had  refused  to 
be  his  wife  ;  time  had  brought  the  philosophic 
mind,  and  he  could  look  back  upon  the  episode 
with  tender  calmness,  and  the  desire  to  do  jus- 
tice to  every  one.  Meanwhile  Rose  had  had  a 
boy.  Whit  claw's  feelings  in  respect  to  him 
were  complicated. 

Seven  or  eight  years  went  by,  the  greater  part 
of  which  Whitelaw  passed  in  England.  There 
he  heard  nothing  of  Mrs.  Mason,  and  when  in 
America  he  heard  very  little.  The  marriage 


i86  TWO   BITES  AT  A  CHERRY 

had  not  been  fortunate,  the  Masons  were  enor- 
mously wealthy,  and  she  was  a  beauty  still. 
The  Delaneys  had  met  her,  one  winter,  at  Santa 
Barbara.  Her  letters  home  had  grown  more 
and  more  infrequent,  and  finally  ceased.  Her 
father  had  died,  and  the  family  was  broken  up 
and  scattered.  Persons  whom  nobody  knew  oc- 
cupied the  old  mansion  on  the  slope  of  Beacon 
Hill.  One  of  the  last  spells  of  the  past  was 
lifted  for  Whitelaw  when  he  saw  strange  faces 
looking  out  of  those  sun-purpled  window-panes. 

If  Whitelaw  thought  of  Mrs.  Mason  at  in- 
tervals, it  was  with  less  distinctness  on  each 
occasion ;  the  old  love-passage,  when  he  recalled 
it  of  an  evening  over  his  cigar,  or  in  the  course 
of  some  solitary  walk,  had  a  sort  of  phantasmal 
quality  about  it.  The  sharp  grief  that  was  to 
have  lasted  forever  had  resolved  itself  into  a 
painless  memory.  He  was  now  on  that  chilly 
side  of  forty  where  one  begins  to  take  ceremo- 
nious leave  of  one's  illusions,  and  prefers  claret 
to  champagne. 

When  the  announcement  of  Richard  Mason's 
death  was  telegraphed  East,  Whitelaw  read  the 
telegram  in  his  morning  paper  with  scarcely 
more  emotion  than  was  shown  by  the  man  who 
sat  opposite  him  reading  the  particulars  of  the 
last  homicide.  This  was  in  a  carriage  on  the 
Sixth  Avenue  elevated  railroad,  for  Whitelaw 


TWO   BITES   AT   A   CHERRY  187 

chanced  to  be  in  New  York  at  the  moment, 
making  preparations  for  an  extended  tour  in 
Russia  and  its  dependencies.  The  Russian 
journey  proved  richer  in  novelty  than  he  had 
anticipated,  and  he  remained  nearly  three  years 
in  the  land  of  the  Tsars.  On  returning  to 
Western  Europe  he  was  seized  with  the  humor 
to  revisit  certain  of  the  Italian  cities  —  Ra- 
venna, Rome,  Venice,  and  Naples.  It  was  in 
Naples  that  he  found  himself  on  that  partic- 
ular May  morning  to  which  reference  has  been 
made. 

Whitelaw  had  never  before  happened  to  be 
in  the  city  during  the  festa  of  San  Gennaro. 
There  are  three  of  these  festivals  annually  — 
in  May,  September,  and  December.  He  had 
fallen  upon  the  most  picturesque  of  the  series. 
The  miracle  of  the  Liquefaction  of  the  Blood  of 
St.  Januarius  was  to  take  place  at  nine  o'clock 
that  forenoon  in  the  cathedral,  and  it  was  a 
spectacle  which  Whitelaw  had  often  desired  to 
witness. 

So  it  was  that  he  followed  the  crowd  along 
the  sunny  strada,  and  shouldered  his  way  into 
the  church,  where  the  great  candles  were 
already  lighted.  The  cool  atmosphere  of  the 
interior,  pleasantly  touched  with  that  snuffy, 
musky  odor  which  haunts  Italian  churches,  was 
refreshing  after  the  incandescent  heat  outside. 


188  TWO  BITES  AT  A  CHERRY 

He  did  not  mind  being  ten  or  twelve  minutes 
too  early. 

Whitelaw  had  managed  to  secure  a  position 
not  far  from  the  altar-rail,  and  was  settling 
himself  comfortably  to  enjoy  the  ceremony, 
with  his  back  braced  against  a  marble  column, 
when  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  profile  of  a  lady 
who  was  standing  about  five  yards  in  advance 
of  him  in  an  oblique  line. 


II 

FOR  an  instant  that  face  seemed  to  Whitelaw 
a  part  of  the  theatric  unreality  which  always 
impresses  one  in  Roman  Catholic  churches 
abroad.  The  sudden  transition  from  the  white 
glare  of  the  street  into  the  semi-twilight  of  the 
spacious  nave  ;  the  soft  bloom  of  the  stained 
windows  ;  the  carving  and  gilding  of  choir  and 
reredos  ;  the  draperies  and  frescoes,  and  the 
ghostly  forms  of  incense  slowly  stretching  up- 
ward, like  some  of  Blake's  weird  shapes,  to 
blend  themselves  with  the  shadows  among  the 
Gothic  arches  —  all  these  instantly  conspire  to 
lift  one  from  the  commonplace  level  of  life. 
With  such  accessories,  and  in  certain  moods, 
the  mind  pliantly  surrenders  itself  to  the  in- 
credible. 

During  possibly  thirty  seconds,  Whitelaw 
might  have  been  mistaken  for  the  mate  of  one 
of  those  half-length  figures  in  alto-relievo  set 
against  the  neighboring  pilasters,  so  grotesque 
and  wooden  was  his  expression.  Then  he  gave 
a  perceptible  start.  That  gold  hair,  in  waves 
of  its  own  on  the  low  brows,  the  sombre  eye- 


190  TWO  BITES   AT   A  CHERRY 

lashes  —  he  could  not  see  her  eyes  from  where 
he  stood  —  the  poise  of  the  head,  the  modelling 
of  the  throat  —  who  could  that  be  but  Rose 
Jenness  ?  He  had  involuntarily  eliminated  the 
Mason  element,  for  the  sight  of  her  had  taken 
him  straight  back  to  the  days  when  there  were 
no  Pacific  Railroad  despots. 

Fifteen  years  (good  heavens  !  was  it  fifteen 
years  ?)  had  not  touched  a  curve  of  the  tall, 
slight  figure.  He  was  struck  by  that,  as  she 
stood  there  with  her  satin  basque  buttoned  up 
to  the  thread-lace  neckerchief  knotted  under 
her  chin,  for  an  insidious  chill  lurked  in  the 
air.  The  garment  fitted  closely,  accentuating 
every  line  of  the  slender  waist  and  flower-like 
full  bust.  At  the  left  of  the  corsage  was  a 
bunch  of  violets  held  by  a  small  silver  clasp  — 
the  selfsame  violets,  he  was  tempted  to  believe, 
that  she  had  worn  the  evening  he  parted  with 
her  tragically  in  the  back  drawing-room  of  the 
house  on  Beacon  Hill.  Neither  she  nor  they 
had  faded.  All  the  details  of  that  parting 
flashed  upon  him  with  strange  vividness  :  the 
figure-piece  by  Hunt  above  the  funereal  fire- 
place ;  the  crimson  India  shawl  hurriedly  thrown 
over  the  back  of  a  chair  and  trailing  on  the 
floor ;  Rose  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  dimly 
lighted  room  and  holding  out  to  him  an  appeal- 
ing hand,  which  he  refused  to  take.  He  re- 


TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY  191 

membered  noticing,  as  he  went  home  dazed 
through  the  moonlight,  that  the  crisp  crocuses 
were  in  bloom  in  the  little  front  yards  of  the 
houses  on  Mount  Vernon  Street.  It  was  May 
then,  and  it  was  May  now,  and  there  stood 
Rose.  As  he  gazed  at  her,  a  queer  sense  of 
old  comradeship  — the  old  friendship  that  had 
gone  to  sleep  when  love  awakened  —  began 
softly  to  stir  in  his  bosom. 

Rose  in  Italy  !  Then  he  recollected  one  of 
the  past  rumors  that  had  floated  to  him  touch- 
ing her  desire  for  foreign  travel,  and  Mason's 
sordid  absorption  in  his  railroad  schemes.  Now 
that  she  was  untrammelled,  she  had  come 
abroad.  She  had  probably  left  home  with  her 
son  soon  after  Mason's  death,  and  had  been 
flitting  from  one  continental  city  to  another 
ever  since,  in  the  tiresome  American  fashion. 
That  might  well  have  befallen  without  White- 
law  hearing  of  it  in  Russia.  The  lists  of  new 
arrivals  were  the  things  he  avoided  in  reading 
Galignani,  just  as  he  habitually  avoided  the 
newly  arrived  themselves. 

There  was  no  hesitation  in  his  mind  as  to 
the  course  he  should  pursue.  The  moment  he 
could  move  he  would  go  to  Rose,  and  greet  her 
without  embarrassment  or  any  arri&re  pens/e. 
It  was  impracticable  to  move  at  present,  for 
the  people  were  packed  about  him  as  solidly  as 


192  TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY 

dates  in  a  crate.  Meanwhile  he  had  the  free- 
dom of  his  eyes.  He  amused  himself  with  re- 
cognizing and  classifying  one  by  one  certain 
evidences  of  individuality  in  Rose's  taste  in  the 
matter  of  dress.  The  hat,  so  subdued  in  color 
and  sparing  of  ornament  as  to  make  it  a  mys- 
tery where  the  rich  effect  came  from  —  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  her  in  that.  He  would 
have  identified  it  at  once  as  Rose's  hat  if  he 
had  picked  it  up  in  the  Desert  of  Sahara.  Not- 
ing this,  and  the  long  tan-colored  gloves  which 
reached  in  wrinkles  to  the  elbow,  and  would 
have  reached  to  the  shoulder  if  they  had  been 
drawn  out  smooth,  Whitelaw  murmured  to  him- 
self, "  Rue  de  la  Paix  !  "  He  had  a  sensation 
of  contiguity  to  a  pair  of  high-heeled  kid  boots 
with  rosettes  at  the  instep,  such  as  are  worn  in 
all  weathers  by  aristocratic  shepherdesses  in 
Watteau's  pink  landscapes.  That,  however, 
was  an  unprovoked  incursion  into  the  territory 
of  conjecture,  for  Whitelaw  could  see  only  the 
upper  portion  of  Rose. 

He  was  glad,  since  accident  had  thrown 
them  together,  that  accident  had  not  done  it  in 
the  first  twelvemonth  of  Rose's  widowhood. 
Any  mortuary  display  on  her  part  would,  he 
felt,  have  jarred  the  wrong  note  in  him,  and 
spoiled  the  pleasure  of  meeting  her.  But  she 
was  out  of  mourning  now ;  the  man  was  dead, 


TWO   BITES   AT   A   CHERRY  193 

had  been  dead  three  years,  and  ought  to  have 
lived  and  died  in  the  pterodactyl  period,  to 
which  he  properly  belonged.  Here  Whitelaw 
paused  in  his  musing,  and  smiled  at  his  own 
heat,  with  a  transient  humorous  perception  of 
it.  Let  the  man  go ;  what  was  the  use  of  think- 
ing about  him  ? 

Dismissing  the  late  Richard  Mason,  who 
really  had  not  been  a  prehistoric  monster,  and 
had  left  Mrs.  Mason  a  large  fortune  to  do  what 
she  liked  with,  Whitelaw  fell  to  thinking  about 
Rose's  son.  He  must  be  quite  thirteen  years 
old,  our  friend  reflected.  What  an  absurdly 
young-looking  woman  Rose  was  to  be  the  mo- 
ther of  a  thirteen-year-old  boy !  —  doubtless  a 
sad  scapegrace,  answering  to  the  definition 
which  Whitelaw  remembered  that  one  of  his 
strong-minded  country-women  had  given  of  the 
typical  bad  boy  —  a  boy  who  looks  like  his 
mother  and  behaves  like  his  father.  Did  Rose's 
son  look  like  his  mother? 

Just  then  Rose  slightly  turned  her  head,  and 
Whitelaw  fancied  that  he  detected  an  inquiring, 
vaguely  anxious  expression  in  her  features,  as 
if  she  were  searching  for  some  one  in  the  as- 
semblage. "  She  is  looking  for  young  Mason," 
he  soliloquized ;  which  was  precisely  the  fact. 
She  glanced  over  the  church,  stared  for  an  in- 
stant straight  past  Whitelaw,  and  then  resumed 


194  TWO  BITES   AT  A  CHERRY 

her  former  position.  He  had  prepared  himself 
to  meet  her  gaze ;  but  she  had  not  seen  him. 
And  now  a  tall  Englishman,  with  a  single  eye- 
glass that  gleamed  like  a  headlight,  came  and 
planted  himself,  as  if  with  malice  prepense, 
between  the  two  Americans. 

"  The  idiot !  "  muttered  Whitelaw,  through 
his  closed  teeth. 

Up  to  the  present  point  he  had  paid  no  at- 
tention whatever  to  St.  Januarius.  The  ap- 
parition of  his  early  love,  in  what  might  be 
called  the  bloom  of  youth,  was  as  much  miracle 
as  he  could  take  in  at  once.  Moreover,  the 
whole  of  her  was  here,  and  only  a  fragment  of 
the  saint.  Whitelaw  was  now  made  aware,  by 
an  expectant  surging  of  the  crowd  in  front  and 
the  craning  of  innumerable  necks  behind  him, 
that  something  important  was  on  the  tapis. 

A  priest,  in  ordinary  non-sacramental  cos- 
tume, had  placed  on  the  altar,  from  which  all 
but  the  permanent  decorations  had  been  re- 
moved, a  life-size  bust  of  St.  Januarius  in  gold 
and  silver,  enclosing  the  remains  of  the  martyr's 
skull.  Having  performed  this  act,  the  priest, 
who  for  the  occasion  represented  the  arch- 
bishop, took  his  stand  at  the  left  of  the  dais. 
Immediately  afterwards  a  procession  of  holy 
fathers,  headed  by  acolytes  bearing  lighted 
candelabra,  issued  from  behind  the  high  altar, 


TWO   BITES   AT   A   CHERRY  195 

where  the  saint's  relics  are  kept  in  a  tabernacle 
on  off  days  and  nights.  An  imposing  person- 
age half-way  down  the  file  carried  a  tall  brass 
monstrance,  in  which  was  suspended  by  a  ring 
an  oblong  flat  crystal  flask,  or  case,  set  in  an 
antique  reliquary  of  silver,  with  handles  at  each 
end.  This  contained  the  phenomenal  blood. 

Having  deposited  the  monstrance  on  the  al- 
tar, the  custodian  reverently  detached  the  relic, 
and  faced  the  audience.  As  he  held  up  the 
flask  by  the  handles  and  slowly  turned  it  round, 
those  nearest  could  distinguish  through  the 
blurred  surface  a  dark  yellowish  opaque  sub- 
stance, occupying  about  two  thirds  of  the  ves- 
sel. It  was  apparently  a  solid  mass,  which  in 
a  liquid  form  might  have  filled  a  couple  of 
sherry  glasses.  The  legend  runs  that  the 
thoughtful  Roman  lady  who  gathered  the  blood 
from  the  ground  with  a  sponge  inadvertently 
let  drop  a  bit  of  straw  into  the  original  phial. 
This  identical  straw,  which  appears  when  the 
lump  is  in  a  state  of  solution,  is  considered 
a  strong  piece  of  circumstantial  evidence.  It  is 
a  remarkable  fact,  and  one  that  by  itself  estab- 
lishes the  authenticity  of  San  Gennaro,  that 
several  of  his  female  descendants  always  assist 
at  the  liquefaction  —  a  row  of  very  aged  and 
very  untidy  Neapolitan  ladies,  to  whom  places 
of  honor  are  given  on  these  occasions. 


196  TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY 

Shut  out  from  Rose,  for  the  obnoxious  Eng- 
lishman completely  blockaded  her,  Whitelaw 
lent  himself  with  faintly  stimulated  interest  to 
the  ceremony,  which  was  now  well  under  way. 
He  was  doubtful  of  many  things,  and  especially 
skeptical  as  to  matters  supernatural.  Accept- 
ing the  miracle  at  its  own  valuation  —  at  par 
value,  as  he  stated  it  —  what  conceivable  profit 
could  accrue  to  mankind  from  the  smelting  of 
that  poor  old  gentleman's  coagulated  blood  ? 
How  had  all  this  mediaeval  mummery  survived 
the  darkness  in  which  it  was  born  ! 

With  half  listless  eye  Whitelaw  watched  the 
priest  as  he  stood  at  the  rail,  facing  the  spec- 
tators and  solemnly  reversing  the  reliquary. 
From  time  to  time  he  paused,  and  held  a  lighted 
candle  behind  the  flask  in  order  to  ascertain  if 
any  change  had  taken  place,  and  then  resumed 
operations  amid  the  breathless  silence.  An 
atmosphere  charged  with  suspense  seemed  to 
have  settled  upon  the  vast  throng. 

Six  —  eight — ten  minutes  passed.  The 
priest  had  several  times  repeated  his  investiga- 
tion ;  but  the  burnt-sienna-like  mass  held  to  its 
consistency.  In  life  St.  Januarius  must  have 
been  a  person  of  considerable  firmness,  a  qual- 
ity which  his  blood  appeared  still  to  retain  even 
after  the  lapse  of  more  than  fourteen  centuries. 

A  thrill  of  disappointment  and  dismay  ran 


TWO  BITES  AT  A  CHERRY  197 

through  the  multitude.  The  miracle  was  not 
working,  in  fact  had  refused  to  work !  The  at- 
tendants behind  the  chancel  rail  wore  perturbed 
faces.  Two  of  the  brothers  turned  to  the  altar 
and  began  saying  the  Athanasian  Creed,  while 
here  and  there  a  half  breathed  prayer  or  a  deep 
muttering  of  protest  took  flight  from  the  con- 
gregation ;  for  the  Neapolitans  insist  on  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  punctuality  in  St.  Januarius. 
Any  unreasonable  delay  on  his  part  is  porten- 
tous of  dire  calamity  to  the  city  —  earthquake 
or  pestilence.  The  least  that  can  be  predicted 
is  an  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius.  Even  so 
late  as  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
a  failure  of  the  miracle  usually  led  to  panic  and 
violence.  To-day  such  a  result  is  hardly  possi- 
ble, though  in  the  rare  instances  when  the  mar- 
tyr procrastinates  a  little,  the  populace  fall  to 
upbraiding  their  patron  saint  with  a  vehemence 
that  is  quite  as  illogical  in  its  way. 

Whitelaw  himself  was  nearly  ripe  to  join  in 
some  such  demonstration.  Transfixed  to  the 
marble  column — like  a  second  St.  Sebastian  — 
and  pierced  with  innumerable  elbows,  he  had 
grown  very  impatient  of  the  whole  business. 
There  was  Rose  within  twenty  feet  of  him,  and 
he  could  neither  approach  her  nor  see  her! 
He  heartily  wished  that  when  Proconsul  Dra- 
contius  threw  St.  Januarius  to  the  lions  in  the 


198  TWO   BITES   AT   A   CHERRY 

amphitheatre  of  Pozzuoli,  the  lions  had  not  left 
a  shred  of  him,  instead  of  tamely  lapping  his 
hand.  Then  Dracontius  would  not  have  been 
obliged  to  behead  the  man ;  then  that  Roman 
lady  would  not  have  come  along  with  her 
sponge  ;  then  he,  Marcus  Whitelaw,  a  free-born 
American  citizen,  would  not  have  been  kept 
standing  there  a  lifetime  waiting  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  say  a  word  to  his  old  love ! 

He  felt  that  he  had  much  to  say  to  Rose. 
The  barrier  which  had  separated  him  from  her 
all  these  years  had  been  swept  away.  The 
whole  situation  was  essentially  changed.  If 
she  were  willing  to  accept  the  friendship  which 
she  once  stipulated  as  the  only  tie  possible 
between  them,  he  was  ready  to  offer  it  to  her 
now.  If  she  had  not  altered,  if  she  remained 
her  old  candid  cordial  self,  what  a  treat  it  would 
be  to  him  to  act  as  her  cicerone  hi  Naples  — 
for  Naples  was  probably  terra  incognita  to 
Rose.  There  were  delightful  drives  along  the 
Riviere  di  Chiaia  ;  excursions  to  Pompeii,  Baiae, 
and  Solfatara  ;  trips  by  steamer  to  Capri,  Sor- 
rento, and  Amalfi.  He  pictured  the  two  of 
them  drifting  in  a  boat  into  the  sappharine 
enchantment  of  the  Blue  Grotto  at  Capri  — 
the  three  of  them,  rather  ;  for  "By  Jove  !  "  he 
reflected,  "we should  have  to  take  the  boy  with 
us."  This  reflection  somewhat  dashed  his 


TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY  199 

spirits.  The  juvenile  Mason  would  be  a  little 
bore  ;  and  if  he  did  n't  look  like  his  mother, 
and  did  look  like  his  father,  the  youth  would  be 
a  great  bore. 

Now  as  Whitelaw  had  never  seen  the  late 
Mr.  Mason,  or  even  a  counterfeit  presentment 
of  him,  any  resemblance  that  might  chance  to 
exist  between  the  father  and  the  son  was  not 
likely  to  prove  aggressive.  This  reflection  also 
occurred  to  Whitelaw,  and  caused  him  to  smile. 
He  had  a  touch  of  that  national  gift  of  humor- 
ous self-introspection  which  enables  Americans, 
almost  alone  among  human  bipeds,  to  smile  at 
their  own  expense. 

While  these  matters  were  passing  through 
his  mind,  and  he  had  given  up  all  hope  of  ex- 
tricating himself  from  his  predicament  until  the 
end  of  the  ceremony,  a  sudden  eddy  swirled 
round  the  column,  the  crowd  wavered  and 
broke,  and  Whitelaw  was  free.  The  disinte- 
gration of  the  living  mass  was  only  momentary, 
but  before  it  could  close  together  again  he  had 
contrived  to  get  three  yards  away  from  the  site 
of  his  martyrdom.  Further  advance  then  be- 
came difficult.  By  dint  of  pushing  and  diplo- 
matic elbowing  he  presently  gained  another 
yard.  The  gpal  was  almost  won. 

A  moment  later  he  stood  at  Rose's  side. 


Ill 

ROSE  had  her  head  turned  three  quarters  to 
the  right,  and  was  unaware  that  any  one  had 
supplanted  the  tall  English  gentleman  recently 
looming  on  her  left.  Whitelaw  drew  a  long 
breath,  and  did  not  speak  at  once,  but  stood 
biting  his  under  lip  with  an  air  of  comic  irreso- 
lution. He  was  painfully  conscious  that  it  was 
comic.  He  had,  in  fact,  fallen  into  an  absurd 
perplexity.  How  should  he  address  her  ?  He 
did  not  quite  dare  to  call  her  "Rose,"  and 
every  fibre  of  his  being  revolted  against  calling 
her  "Mrs.  Mason."  Yet  he  must  address  her 
in  some  fashion,  and  instantly.  There  was  one 
alternative  —  not  to  address  her.  He  bent 
down  a  little,  and  touched  her  lightly  on  the 
shoulder. 

The  lady  wheeled  sharply,  with  a  movement 
that  must  have  been  characteristic  of  her,  and 
faced  him.  There  was  no  faltering  or  reser- 
vation in  voice  or  manner  as  she  exclaimed 
"  Marc  !  "  and  gave  one  of  the  tan-colored  gloves 
into  his  keeping  for  twenty  seconds  or  so. 
She  had  spoken  rather  loud,  forgetting  circum- 


TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY  201 

stance  and  place  in  her  surprise,  and  several  of 
the  masculine  bystanders  smiled  sympathetically 
on  la  bella  Americana,  There  was  the  old 
ring  to  her  voice,  and  it  vibrated  musically  on 
Whitelaw's  ear. 

"Rose,"  he  said  in  an  undertone,  "I  can- 
not tell  you  how  glad  I  am  of  this.  I  begin  to 
believe  that  things  are  planned  for  me  better 
than  I  can  plan  them." 

"  This  was  planned  charmingly  —  but  it  was 
odd  to  make  us  meet  in  Naples,  when  we  have 
so  much  room  at  home  to  meet  in." 

"  The  odd  feature  of  it  to  me  is  that  it  does  n't 
appear  odd.  I  don't  see  how  anything  else 
could  have  happened  without  breaking  all  the 
laws  of  probability." 

"  It  seems  much  too  good  to  be  true,"  said 
Rose  gayly. 

She  was  unaffectedly  happy  over  the  encoun- 
ter, and  the  manner  of  it.  She  had  caused  White- 
law  a  deep  mortification  in  days  past,  and  though 
it  had  been  the  consequence  of  no  fault  of  her 
own,  had  indeed  been  entirely  Whitelaw's,  she 
had  always  wanted  the  assurance  of  his  forgive- 
ness. That  he  had  withheld  through  long 
years,  and  now  he  forgave  her.  She  read  the 
pardon  in  his  voice  and  eyes.  Rose  scanned 
him  a  little  curiously,  though  with  no  overt  act 
of  curiosity.  He  had  grown  stouter,  but  the 


202  TWO   BITES  AT  A  CHERRY 

added  fulness  was  not  unbecoming :  he  used  to 
be  too  spare  for  his  stature.  His  sharp  New 
England  face  belonged  to  a  type  that  seldom 
loses  its  angles.  The  scar  in  the  shape  of  a  cross 
on  his  left  cheek  was  decorative.  The  hand- 
somely moulded  upper  lip  was  better  without  the 
mustache.  There  were  silvery  glints  here  and 
there  where  the  chestnut  hair  was  brushed  back 
from  the  temples.  These  first  few  scattering 
snowflakes  of  time  went  well  with  .his  bronzed 
complexion  ;  for  he  was  as  brown  as  an  Indian, 
from  travel.  On  the  whole,  fifteen  years  had 
decidedly  adorned  him. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  —  in  Naples, 
I  mean?"  questioned  Whitelaw,  again  under 
his  breath. 

"  A  week  ;  and  you  ? " 

"Since  yesterday.  I  came  chiefly  for  this 
festa." 

"  I  did  n't  dream  you  were  so  devout." 

"  The  conversion  is  recent ;  but  henceforth 
I  swear  by  St.  Januarius  through  thick  and 
thin,  though  as  a  general  thing  I  prefer  him 
thin  — when  it  doesn't  take  too  long." 

"  If  any  one  should  hear  you ! "  whispered 
Rose,  glancing  round  furtively. 

"Why,  the  Church  itself  doesn't  cling  very 
strongly  to  the  miracle  nowadays,  and  would 
gladly  be  rid  of  it ;  but  the  simple  folk  of  the 


TWO  BITES  AT  A  CHERRY  203 

Santa  Lucia  quarter  and  the  outlying  volcanoes 
insist  on  having  their  St.  Januarius.  I  imagine 
it  would  cost  a  revolution  to  banish  him.  Rose, 
when  did  you  leave  home  ?  " 

"  Last  March.  Hush !  "  she  added,  laying 
a  ringer  to  her  lip.  "  Something  is  happening 
in  the  chancel." 

The  martyr's  blood  had  finally  given  signs 
of  taking  the  proper  sanguine  hue,  to  the  in- 
tense relief  of  the  populace,  from  which  arose 
a  dull  multitudinous  murmur,  like  that  of  a  dis- 
tant swarm  of  bees.  The  priest,  with  a  gleam 
of  beatific  triumph  in  his  cavernous  eyes,  was 
holding  the  reliquary  high  aloft.  The  vast  con- 
gregation swayed  to  and  fro,  and  some  tumult 
was  created  by  devotees  in  the  background  en- 
deavoring to  obtain  coignes  of  vantage  nearer 
the  altar. 

"  Surely,  you  have  not  trusted  yourself  alone 
in  this  place  ?  "  said  Whitelaw. 

"  No,  I  'm  with  you,"  Rose  answered,  smil- 
ing. 

"  But  you  did  not  come  unattended  ? " 

"  Richard  came  with  me ;  we  got  separated 
immediately  on  entering  the  cathedral,  and  lost 
each  other." 

"Richard  —  that  is  the  name  of  your  son," 
remarked  Whitelaw,  after  a  pause.  The  father's 
name! 


204  TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY 

"Yes,  and  I  want  you  to  see  him.  He's  a 
fine  fellow." 

"I  should  like  to  see  him,"  said  Whitelaw 
perfunctorily. 

"  He  is  very  clever,  not  like  me." 

"  I  hope  he 's  as  unaware  of  his  cleverness 
as  you  are  of  yours,  Rose." 

"  I  am  quite  aware  of  mine.  I  only  said  that 
his  was  different.  That  spoils  your  compli- 
ment. He's  to  remain  over  here  at  school  — 
in  Germany  —  if  I  can  make  up  my  mind  in 
the  autumn  to  leave  him.  When  do  you  return 
to  America  ? " 

"  In  the  autumn,"  said  Whitelaw  promptly, 
a  little  to  his  own  surprise,  for  until  then  he 
really  had  had  no  plan. 

"  Perhaps  we  can  arrange  to  go  back  on  the 
same  steamer,"  suggested  Rose.  "We  crossed 
in  the  Cuba,  and  liked  her.  She's  advertised 
to  sail  on  the  i/th  of  September;  how  would 
that  suit  you,  for  example  ? " 

The  suggestion  smiled  upon  Whitelaw,  and 
he  was  about  to  reply,  when  a  peal  from  the 
great  organ,  announcing  the  consummation  of 
the  miracle,  reverberated  through  the  church 
and  cut  him  short.  As  the  thunders  died  away, 
the  voices  of  chanting  priests  ascended  from 
the  chancel,  where  some  choir-boys  were  strew- 
ing rose-leaves  over  the  marble  steps  leading  to 


TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY  205 

the  altar.  At  the  same  moment  the  boom  of 
a  heavy  gun,  fired  from  the  ramparts  of  the 
Castel  dell'  Ovo,  shook  the  windows.  The  city 
ordnance  was  saluting  St.  Januarius  —  a  custom 
that  has  since  fallen  into  desuetude. 

"  Look  !  "  exclaimed  Rose,  laying  her  hand 
impulsively  on  Whitelaw's  arm,  "  see  the  birds ! 
That 's  an  exquisite  fancy ! " 

A  flock  of  sparrows  had  been  let  loose,  and 
were  beating  the  misty  air  with  uncertain  wings, 
darting  hither  and  thither  through  the  nave 
and  under  the  arches,  in  search  of  resting-places 
on  frieze  and  cornice  and  jutting  stonework. 
Meanwhile  the  priest  had  stepped  down  from 
the  dais  and  was  passing  among  the  people,  who 
crowded  round  him  to  press  their  lips  and  fore- 
heads to  the  flask  enclosed  in  the  reliquary. 
The  less  devotional,  and  those  who  had  already 
performed  the  rite,  were  slowly  wending  their 
way  to  the  various  outlets  on  the  strada. 

"  I  am  glad  it 's  over,"  declared  Whitelaw. 

"To  think,"  observed  Rose  reflectively, 
"that  he  has  got  to  go  all  through  it  again  to- 
morrow! " 

"Who?" 

"  That  poor  dear  saint." 

"Oh,"  laughed  Whitelaw,  "I  thought  you 
meant  me.  He  does  n't  mind  it ;  it 's  his  pro- 
fession. There  are  objects  more  deserving  of 


206  TWO   BITES   AT  A  CHERRY 

your  pity.  I,  for  instance,  who  have  no  sort 
of  talent  for  martyrdom.  You  should  have 
seen  me  —  pinned  to  that  column,  like  an  ento- 
mological specimen,  for  forty  mortal  minutes ! 
I  would  n't  go  through  it  again  for  a  great 
deal." 

"  Not  for  the  sake  of  meeting  an  old  friend  ? " 

"  It  was  the  old  friend  that  made  it  particu- 
larly hard.  To  be  so  near  her,  and  not  able  to 
speak  to  her!  And  part  of  the  time  not  to 
have  even  the  consolation  of  seeing  the  sweep 
of  the  ring-dove's  wing  on  the  left  side  of  her 
new  Paris  hat." 

Rose  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  smiled  in 
a  half  absent  way.  She  was  far  from  averse  to 
having  a  detail  of  her  toilet  noticed  by  those 
she  liked.  In  former  days  Whitelaw  had  had 
a  quick  eye  in  such  trifles,  and  his  remark 
seemed  to  her  a  veritable  little  piece  of  the 
pleasant  past,  with  an  odd,  suggestive  flavor 
about  it. 

She  had  slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm, 
and  the  pair  were  moving  leisurely  with  the 
stream  towards  one  of  the  leather-screened 
doors  opening  upon  the  vestibule.  The  man- 
ner in  which  Rose  fell  in  with  his  step,  and 
a  certain  subtile  something  he  recognized  in  the 
light  pressure  of  her  weight,  carried  him,  in  his 
turn,  very  far  back  into  the  olden  time.  The 


TWO   BITES   AT  A  CHERRY  207 

fifteen  years,  like  the  two  and  thirty  years  in 
Tennyson's  lyric,  were  as  a  mist  that  rolls  away. 
It  appeared  to  Whitelaw  as  if  they  had  never 
been  separated,  or  had  parted  only  yesterday. 
How  naturally  and  sweetly  she  had  picked  up 
the  dropped  thread  of  the  old  friendship !  The 
novelty  of  her  presence  had  evaporated  at  the 
first  words  she  had  spoken ;  only  the  pleasure 
of  it  remained.  To  him  there  was  nothing 
strange  or  unexpected  in  their  wholly  unex- 
pected and  entirely  strange  meeting.  As  he 
had  told  her,  he  did  not  see  how  anything  else 
could  have  happened.  Already  he  had  acquired 
the  habit  of  being  with  her ! 

"Good  heavens!  "he  said  to  himself,  "it 
can't  be  that  I  am  falling  in  love  with  Rose 
over  again !  " 

The  idea  brought  a  flickering  smile  to  White- 
law's  lips,  the  idea  of  falling  in  love  at  first 
sight  —  after  a  decennium  and  a  half  ! 

"  What  are  you  smiling  at  ?  "  she  demanded, 
looking  up  alertly. 

"  I  did  n't  know  I  was  smiling." 

"  But  you  were ;  and  an  unexplained  smile 
when  two  persons  are  alone  together,  with  two 
thousand  others,  is  as  inadmissible  as  whisper- 
ing in  company." 

Whitelaw  glanced  at  her  with  an  amused, 
partly  embarrassed  expression,  and  made  no 


208  TWO   BITES  AT  A  CHERRY 

response.  They  were  passing  at  the  instant 
through  a  narrow  strip  of  daylight  slanted  from 
one  of  the  great  blazoned  windows,  and  he  was 
enabled  to  see  Rose's  face  with  more  distinct- 
ness than  he  hitherto  had  done.  If  it  had  lost 
something  of  its  springtide  bloom  and  outline 
—  and  he  saw  that  that  was  so  —  it  had  gained 
a  beauty  of  a  rarer  and  richer  sort.  There  was 
a  deeper  lustre  to  the  dark-fringed  eyes,  as  if 
they  had  learned  to  think,  and  a  greater  ten- 
derness in  the  curves  of  the  mouth,  as  if  it  had 
learned  to  be  less  imperious.  How  handsome 
she  was  —  handsomer  than  she  had  been  at 
nineteen ! 

In  his  rapid  survey,  Whitelaw's  eye  had 
lighted  on  the  small  clasp  holding  the  violets  to 
her  corsage  —  and  rested  there.  The  faint 
flush  that  came  to  his  cheek  gradually  deep- 
ened. 

"  Is  that  the  clasp  I  gave  you  when  you  were 
a  girl  ?  "  he  finally  asked. 

"  You  recognize  it  ?  —  yes." 

"  And  you  've  kept  the  trifle  all  these  cen- 
turies !  " 

"That's  not  polite — when  I  was  a  girl, 
several  hundred  years  ago  !  I  kept  it  because 
it  was  a  birthday  gift ;  because  it  was  a  trifle  ; 
then  from  habit,  and  now  the  centuries  have 
turned  it  into  a  bit  of  priceless  bric-a-brac" 


TWO   BITES   AT  A  CHERRY  209 

Somehow  Rose's  explanation  did  not  seem  to 
him  quite  so  exquisite  as  the  bare  fact  itself. 

Whitelaw  was  now  conscious  of  a  very  per- 
ceptible acceleration  in  the  flow  of  the  current 
that  was  bearing  them  towards  the  cathedral 
entrance.  It  was  not  his  purpose  that  they 
should  reach  it  just  yet.  Their  brief  dialogue, 
carried  on  in  undertone,  and  the  early  part  of  it 
with  ecclesiastical  interruptions,  had  been  de- 
sultory and  unsatisfying.  He  should  of  course 
see  much  of  Rose  during  her  stay  in  Naples,  for 
he  had  no  intention  of  leaving  it  while  she  re- 
mained ;  but  the  opportunity  of  having  her  to 
himself  might  not  re-occur,  and  he  had  certain 
things  to  say  to  her  which  could  not  be  said 
under  any  other  condition.  So  many  opportu- 
nities of  various  kinds  had  escaped  him  in  the 
course  of  life  that  he  resolved  not  to  let  this 
one  slip.  On  the  right  of  the  eastern  transept, 
he  remembered,  was  a  heavenly  little  chapel  — 
the  chapel  of  the  Seripandis  —  where  they 
might  converse  without  restraint,  if  once  they 
could  get  there. 

Watching  his  chance,  Whitelaw  began  a  skil- 
ful oblique  movement,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  two  found  themselves  free  of  the  crowd 
and  in  front  of  a  gilded  iron  fencing,  the  gate 
of  which  stood  open. 

"  This  is  not  the  way  out ! "  exclaimed  Rose. 


210  TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY 

"  I  'm  aware  of  it,"  said  Whitelaw. 

"But  we  want  to  get  out." 

"  You  Ve  never  visited  the  church  before, 
have  you,  Rose  ? " 

"No." 

"  Then  you  ought  to  see  some  of  the  chapels. 
They  contain  things  by  Spagnoletto,  Domeni- 
chino,  and  others.  In  this  one,  for  instance,  is 
an  Assumption  by  Perugino.  It  would  be  a 
pity  to  miss  that  —  now  you  are  on  the  spot." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  n't  time  for  sightseeing," 
she  answered,  drawing  out  a  diminutive  watch 
and  pressing  a  spring  in  the  stem.  "  I  've  an 
engagement  at  ten  "  — 

"Well,  that  leaves  you  more  than  half  an 
hour,"  he  interrupted,  glancing  over  Rose's 
shoulder  at  the  time-piece. 

"But  meanwhile  Richard  will  be  searching 
for  me  everywhere." 

"  Then  he  can't  fail  to  find  you  here,"  said 
Whitelaw  adroitly.  "  He  has  probably  given 
you  up,  however,  and  gone  back  to  the  hotel." 

"  Perhaps  he  has,"  assented  Rose  irreso- 
lutely. 

"  In  which  case,  I  will  take  you  home,  or  wher- 
ever you  wish,  to  be  taken,  when  it  is  necessary 
for  you  to  go." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  not  trouble  you.  The  carriage  was 
ordered  to  wait  at  the  corner  just  below  the 


TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY  211 

church  —  the  driver  was  not  able  to  get  nearer. 
That  was  to  be  our  point  of  rendezvous.  I 
don't  know  —  perhaps  I  ought  to  go  now." 

Rose  stood  a  second  or  two  in  an  attitude  of 
pretty  hesitation,  with  her  hand  resting  on  one 
of  the  spear-heads  of  the  gate;  then  she 
stepped  into  the  chapel. 


rv 

"  IT  is  not  Perugino  at  his  best,"  said  White- 
law,  after  a  silence  ;  "  it  has  been  restored  in 
places,  and  not  well  done.  I  like  some  of  his 
smaller  canvases ;  but  I  don't  greatly  care  for 
Perugino." 

"  Then  why  on  earth  have  you  dragged  me 
in  here  to  see  it  ?  "  cried  Rose. 

"Because  I  care  for  you,"  he  answered,  smil- 
ing at  the  justice  of  her  swift  wrath.  As  he 
turned  away  from  the  painting,  his  countenance 
became  grave. 

"  You  have  an  original  way  of  showing  it. 
If  I  cared  for  any  one,  I  would  n't  pick  out 
objects  of  no  interest  for  her  to  look  at." 

"  Frankly,  Rose,  I  was  not  willing  to  let  you 
go  so  soon.  I  wanted  a  quiet  half  hour's  talk 
with  you.  I  had  two  or  three  serious  things  to 
say  —  things  that  have  long  been  on  my  mind 
—  and  a  chapel  seemed  the  only  fitting  place  to 
say  them  in." 

This  rather  solemn  exordium  caused  Rose  to 
lift  her  eyelashes  anxiously. 

"  I  want  to  speak  of  the  past,"  said  White- 
law. 


TWO  BITES  AT  A  CHERRY  213 

"  No,  do  not  let  us  speak  of  that,"  she  pro- 
tested hurriedly. 

"  After  all  this  tune,  Rose,  I  think  I  have  a 
kind  of  right "  — 

"  No,  you  have  no  right  whatever  "  — 

—  "to  ask  your  forgiveness." 

"  My  forgiveness  — for  what  ? " 

"For  my  long  silence,  and  sullenness,  and 
brutality  generally.  It  was  n't  a  crime  in  you 
not  to  love  me  in  the  old  days,  and  I  acted  as 
if  I  regarded  it  as  one.  I  was  without  any 
justification  in  going  away  from  you  in  the 
mood  I  did  that  night." 

"  I  was  very,  very  sorry,"  said  Rose  gently. 

"  I  should  at  once  have  accepted  the  situa- 
tion, and  remained  your  friend  That  was  a 
man's  part,  and  I  failed  to  play  it.  After  a 
while,  when  I  had  recovered  my  reason,  it  was 
too  late.  It  appears  to  be  one  of  the  condi- 
tions, if  not  the  sole  condition,  of  my  existence 
that  I  should  be  too  late.  The  occasion  always 
gets  away  from  me.  When  your  —  when  I 
heard  of  Mr.  Mason's  death,  if  I  had  been  an- 
other man  I  would  have  written  to  you,  or  sent 
you  some  sort  of  kindly  message,  for  the  old 
time's  sake.  The  impulse  to  do  so  came  to  me 
three  months  afterwards.  I  sat  down  one  day 
and  began  to  write ;  then  the  futility  and  un- 
timeliness  of  the  whole  thing  struck  me,  and  I 
tore  up  the  letter." 


214  TWO   BITES  AT  A  CHERRY 

"I  wish  you  had  not,"  said  Rose.  "A  word 
from  you  then,  or  before  Mr.  Mason's  death, 
would  have  been  welcome  to  me.  I  was  never 
willing  to  lose  your  friendship.  After  your 
first  return  from  Europe,  and  you  were  seeing 
something  of  your  own  country,  as  every  Amer- 
ican ought  to  do,  I  hoped  that  you  would  visit 
San  Francisco.  I  greatly  desired  that  you 
should  come  and  tell  me,  of  your  free  will,  that 
I  was  not  to  blame.  If  I  had  been,  perhaps 
I  would  not  have  cared." 

"  You  were  blameless  from  beginning  to  end. 
I  do  not  believe  you  ever  said  or  did  an  insin- 
cere thing  in  your  life,  Rose.  I  simply  misun- 
derstood. The  whole  story  lies  in  that.  You 
were  magnanimous  to  waste  any  thought  what- 
ever upon  me.  When  I  reflect  on  my  own  un- 
generous attitude,  I  am  ashamed  to  beg  your 
pardon." 

"I  have  not  anything  to  forgive,"  Rose  re- 
plied ;  and  then  she  added,  looking  at  him  with 
a  half  rueful  smile,  "  I  suppose  it  was  unavoid- 
able, under  the  circumstances,  that  we  should 
touch  on  this  matter.  Perhaps  it  was  the  only 
way  to  exorcise  the  ghost  of  the  past;  at  all 
events,  I  am  glad  that  you  've  said  what  you 
have  ;  and  now  let  it  go.  Tell  me  about  your- 
self." 

"I  wish  I  could.  There  's  no  more  bio- 
graphy to  me  than  if  I  were  Shakespeare." 


TWO   BITES   AT  A  CHERRY  215 

"What  have  you  done  all  this  while? " 

"Nothing." 

"  Where  have  you  been  ? " 

"Everywhere." 

"  No  pursuit,  no  study,  no  profession  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  am  a  professional  nomad  —  an 
alien  wherever  I  go.  I  'm  an  Englishman  in 
America,  and  an  American  in  England.  They 
don't  let  up  on  me  in  either  country." 

"  Is  n't  there  a  kind  of  vanity  in  self-dispar- 
agement, my  friend  ?  Seriously,  if  you  are  not 
doing  your  own  case  injustice,  hasn't  this  been 
a  rather  empty  career  ?  A  colonel  at  twenty- 
four  —  and  nothing  ever  after !  " 

"Precisely  —  just  as  if  I  had  been  killed  at 
Antietam."  He  wanted  to  say,  "on  Beacon 
Hill." 

"  With  your  equipment,  every  path  was  open 
to  you.  Most  men  have  to  earn  their  daily 
bread  with  one  hand,  while  they  are  working 
for  higher  things  with  the  other.  You  had 
only  the  honors  to  struggle  for.  To  give  up 
one's  native  land,  and  spend  years  in  aimless 
wandering  from  place  to  place  —  it  seems  down- 
right wicked." 

"  I  've  had  some  conscience  in  the  matter," 
pleaded  Whitelaw  —  "I  might  have  written 
books  of  travel  and  made  a  stock-company  of 
my  ennui" 


2i6  TWO   BITES   AT   A   CHERRY 

"You  ought  to  have  married,  Marc,"  said 
Rose  sententiously. 

"  I  ?  "  Whitelaw  stared  at  her.  How  could 
Rose  say  a  thing  like  that ! 

"Every  man  ought  to  marry,"  she  supple- 
mented. 

"I  admit  the  general  proposition,"  he  re- 
turned slowly,  "but  I  object  to  the  personal 
application.  To  the  mass  of  mankind  —  mean- 
ing also  womankind  —  marriage  may  be  the 
only  possible  thing;  but  to  the  individual,  it 
may  be  the  one  thing  impossible.  I  would  put 
the  formula  this  way  :  Every  one  ought  to  wish 
to  marry  ;  some  ought  to  be  allowed  to  marry ; 
and  others  ought  to  marry  twice  —  to  make  the 
average  good." 

"That  sounds  Shakespearean  —  like  your 
biography;  but  I  don't  think  I  have  quite 
caught  the  idea." 

"  Perhaps  it  got  tangled  in  the  expression," 
said  Whitelaw.  "  It  was  my  purpose  to  pay  a 
handsome  tribute  to  matrimony,  and  to  beg  to 
be  excused." 

Rose  remained  silent  a  moment,  with  one 
finger  pressed  against  her  cheek,  making  a  lit- 
tle round  white  dent  in  it,  and  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  kneeling  figure  of  Cardinal  Carafa  at 
the  left  of  Perugino's  picture.  Then  she  turned, 
and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  Whitelaw's  figure. 


TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY  217 

"Have  you  never,"  she  asked,  "have  you 
never,  in  all  your  journeyings,  met  a  woman 
whom  you  liked  ? " 

"  I  cannot  answer  you,"  he  replied  soberly, 
"without  treading  on  forbidden  ground.     May 
I  do  that  ?     When  I  first  came  abroad  I  fancy 
I  rather  hated  women  —  that  was  one  of  the 
mild   manifestations   of   my   general  insanity. 
Later,  my  hatred  changed   to   morbid  fastid- 
iousness.    My  early  education  had  spoiled  me. 
I  have,  of  course,  met  many  admirable  women, 
and  admired  them — at  a  safe  distance." 
"  And  thrown  away  your  opportunities." 
"  But  if  I  loved  no  one  ? " 
"Admiration  would  have  served." 
"  I  do  not  agree  with  you,  Rose." 
"  A  man  may  do  worse  than  make  what  the 
world  calls  a  not  wholly  happy  marriage." 

Whitelaw  glanced  at  her  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye.  Was  that  an  allusion  to  the  late 
Richard  Mason?  The  directness  was  charac- 
teristic of  Rose;  but  the  remark  was  a  trifle 
too  direct  for  convenance.  If  there  were  any 
esoteric  intent  in  the  words,  her  face  did  not 
betray  it.  But  women  can  look  less  self-con- 
scious than  men. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  she  went  on,  "  that  even 
an  unromantic,  commonplace  union  would  have 
been  better  than  the  lonely,  irresponsible  life 


2i8  TWO  BITES  AT  A  CHERRY 

you  have  led,  accepting  your  own  statement  of 
it — which  I  do  not  wholly.  A  man  should 
have  duties  outside  of  himself;  without  them 
he  is  a  mere  balloon,  inflated  with  thin  egotism 
and  drifting  nowhere." 

"I  don't  accept  the  balloon,"  protested 
Whitelaw,  not  taking  kindly  to  Rose's  meta- 
phor. "That  presupposes  a  certain  internal 
specific  buoyancy  which  I  have  not,  if  I  ever 
had  it.  My  type  in  the  inanimate  kingdom 
would  be  a  diving-machine  continually  going 
down  into  wrecks  in  which  there  is  apparently 
nothing  to  bring  up.  I  would  have  it  ultimately 
find  the  one  precious  ingot  in  the  world." 

"Oh,  Marc,"  cried  Rose  earnestly,  with  just 
a  diverting  little  touch  of  maternal  solicitude  in 
the  gesture  she  made, "oh,  Marc,  I  hope  some 
day  to  see  you  happily  married." 

"You  don't  think  it  too  late,  then?" 

"  Too  late  ?  Why,  you  are  only  forty-three ; 
and  what  if  you  were  seventy-three?  On 
a  Page  de  son  cceur" 

"  Mine  throws  no  light  on  the  subject,"  said 
Whitelaw,  with  a  thrill  which  he  instantly  re- 
pressed. "I  suspect  that  my  heart  must  be 
largely  feminine,  for  it  refuses  to  tell  me  its 
real  age.  At  any  rate,  I  do  not  trust  it.  Just 
now  it  is  trying  to  pass  itself  off  for  twenty-five 
or  thirty." 


TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY  219 

From  time  to  time  in  the  progress  of  this 
conversation  a  shadow,  not  attributable  to  any 
of  the  overhanging  sculpture  of  the  little  Gothic 
chapel,  had  rested  on  Whitelaw's  countenance. 
He  had  been  assailed  by  strange  surprises  and 
conflicting  doubts.  Five  or  ten  minutes  before, 
the  idea  of  again  falling  in  love  with  Rose  had 
made  him  smile.  But  was  he  not  doing  it,  had 
he  not  done  it,  or,  rather,  had  he  not  always 
loved  her  —  more  or  less  unconsciously  ?  And 
Rose  ?  Her  very  candor  perplexed  and  baffled 
him,  as  formerly.  She  had  always  been  a  stout 
little  Puritan,  with  her  sense  of  duty ;  but  that 
did  not  adequately  explain  the  warmth  with 
which  she  had  reproved  him  for  his  aimless  way 
of  life.  Why  should  his  way  of  life  so  deeply 
concern  her,  unless  .  .  .  unless  ...  In  cer- 
tain things  she  had  said  there  had  been  a  sig- 
nificance that  seemed  perfectly  clear  to  him, 
though  it  had  not  lain  upon  the  surface  of  the 
spoken  words.  Why  had  she  questioned  him 
so  inquisitorially  ?  Why  had  she  desired  to 
know  if  he  had  formed  any  new  lines  of  attach- 
ment ?  That  indirect  reference  to  her  own  un- 
fortunate marriage?  And  then  —  though  she 
explained  it  lightly  —  had  she  not  worn  his  boy- 
ish gift  on  her  bosom  through  all  those  years  ? 
The  suggestion  that  they  should  return  home 
on  the  same  steamer  contained  in  itself  a  whole 


220  TWO  BITES  AT  A  CHERRY 

little  drama  of  likelihoods.  What  if  destiny 
had  brought  him  and  Rose  together  at  last ! 
He  did  not  dare  think  of  it ;  he  did  not  dare  ac- 
knowledge to  himself  that  he  wished  it,  though 
he  knew  he  did. 

Whitelaw  was  now  standing  in  the  centre  of 
the  contracted  apartment,  a  few  feet  from  his 
companion,  and  looking  at  her  meditatively. 
The  cloud  was  gone  from  his  brow,  and  a  soft 
light  had  come  into  the  clear  gray  eyes.  Her 
phrase  curled  itself  cunningly  about  his  heart  — 
on  a  Tdge  de  son  cozur !  He  was  afraid  to  speak 
again,  lest  an  uncontrollable  impulse  should 
hurry  him  into  speaking  of  his  love;  and  that 
he  felt  would  indeed  be  precipitate.  But  the 
silence  which  had  followed  his  last  remark  was 
growing  awkwardly  long.  He  must  break  it 
with  some  platitude,  if  he  could  summon  one. 

"Now  that  my  anatomization  is  ended,"  he 
said  tentatively,  "is  it  not  your  turn,  Rose?  I 
have  made  a  poor  showing,  as  I  warned  you  I 
should." 

"  My  life  has  been  fuller  than  yours,"  she  re- 
turned, bending  her  eyes  upon  him  seriously, 
"  and  richer.  I  have  had  such  duties  and  plea- 
sures as  fall  to  most  women,  and  such  sorrow 
as  falls  to  many.  ...  I  have  lost  a  child." 

The  pathos  of  the  simple  words  smote  White- 
law  to  the  heart 


TWO  BITES  AT  A  CHERRY  221 

"I  —  I  had  not  heard,"  he  faltered;  and  a 
feeling  of  infinite  tenderness  for  her  came  over 
him.  If  he  had  dared  he  would  have  gone  to 
Rose  and  put  his  arm  around  her  ;  but  he  did 
not  dare.  He  stood  riveted  to  the  marble 
floor,  gazing  at  her  mutely. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  refer  to  that,"  she  said, 
looking  up,  with  a  lingering  dimness  in  the 
purple  lashes.  "  No,  don't  let  us  talk  any  more 
of  the  past.  Speak  to  me  of  something  else, 
please." 

"The  future,"  said  Whitelaw;  "that  can 
give  us  no  pain  —  until  it  comes,  and  is  gone. 
What  are  your  plans  for  the  summer  ? " 

"  We  shall  travel.  I  want  Richard  to  see  as 
much  as  he  can  before  he  is  tied  down  to  his 
studies,  poor  fellow  !  " 

"Where  do  you  intend  to  leave  him  at 
school  ? "  inquired  Whitelaw,  with  a  quite  recent 
interest  in  Richard. 

"At  Heidelberg  or  Leipsic  —  it  is  not  de- 
cided." 

"  And  meanwhile  what 's  to  be  your  route  of 
travel  ? " 

"  We  shall  go  to  Sweden  and  Norway,  and 
perhaps  to  Russia.  I  don't  know  why,  but  it 
has  been  one  of  the  dreams  of  my  life  to  see 
the  great  fair  at  Nijnii-Novgorod." 

"  It  is  worth  seeing,"  said  Whitelaw. 


222  TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY 

"  It  will  be  at  its  height  in  August  —  a  con- 
venient time  for  us.  We  could  scarcely  expect 
to  reach  St.  Petersburg  before  August." 

"I  have  just  returned  from  Russia,"  he  said, 
"after  three  years  of  it." 

"Then  you  can  give  me  some  suggestions." 

"Travelling  there  has  numerous  drawbacks 
unless  one  knows  the  language.  French,  which 
serves  everywhere  in  Western  Europe,  is  nearly 
useless  in  the  majority  of  places.  All  educated 
Russians  of  course  speak  French  or  German  ; 
but  railroad-guards  and  drosky-drivers,  and  the 
persons  with  whom  the  mere  tourist  is  brought 
most  in  contact,  know  only  Russian." 

"But  we've  an  excellent  courier,"  rejoined 
Rose,  "who  speaks  all  the  tongues  of  Babel. 
His  English  is  something  superb." 

"  When  do  you  start  northward  ? "  asked 
Whitelaw,  turning  on  her  quickly,  with  a  sudden 
subtile  prescience  of  defeated  purpose. 

"To-morrow." 

"  To-morrow !  "  he  echoed,  in  consternation. 
"  Then  I  am  to  see  nothing  of  you  ! " 

"  If  you  Ve  no  engagement  for  to-night, 
come  to  the  hotel.  I  should  be  very  glad 
to"  — 

"  Where  are  you  staying  ?" 

"  At  the  United  States,  on  the  Chiatamone, 
like  true  patriots." 


TWO   BITES   AT   A   CHERRY  223 

"  I  have  no  engagement,"  said  Whitelaw  be- 
wilderedly. 

Rose  to  leave  Naples  to-morrow  !  That  was 
a  death-blow  to  all  his  plans  — the  excursions 
in  the  environs,  and  all !  She  was  slipping 
through  his  fingers  again  ...  he  was  losing 
her  forever  !  There  was  no  time  for  temporiz- 
ing or  hesitation.  He  must  never  speak,  or 
speak  now.  Perhaps  it  would  not  seem  abrupt 
or  even  strange  to  her.  If  so,  Rose  should 
remember  that  his  position  as  a  lover  was  ex- 
ceptional—  he  had  done  his  wooing  fifteen 
years  before  !  He  confessed  to  himself  —  and 
he  had  often  confessed  it  to  that  same  severe 
critic  of  manners  — that  possibly  his  wooing 
had  been  somewhat  lacking  in  dash  and  persist- 
ence then.  But  to-day  he  would  win  her,  as  he 
might  perhaps  have  won  her  years  ago,  if  he 
had  not  been  infirm  of  purpose,  or  pigeon- 
livered,  or  too  proud — which  was  it  ?  He  had 
let  a  single  word  repulse  him,  when  the  chances 
were  he  might  have  carried  her  by  storm,  or 
taken  her  by  siege.  How  young  he  must  have 
seemed,  even  in  her  young  eyes  !  Now  he  had 
experience  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  and 
would  not  be  denied.  The  doubts  and  mis- 
givings that  had  clouded  his  mind  for  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour  were  blown  away  like 
meadow-mists  at  sunrise.  At  last  he  saw 


224  TWO   BITES   AT  A   CHERRY 

clearly.  He  loved  Rose  — he  had  never  really 
loved  her  until  this  moment !  For  other  men 
there  were  other  methods ;  there  was  but  one 
course  for  him.  No ;  he  would  not  go  to  the 
hotel  that  night  —  as  a  suitor.  His  fate  should 
be  sealed  then  and  there  in  the  chapel  of  the 
Seripandis. 

Whitelaw  straightened  himself,  wavering  for 
an  instant,  like  a  foresail  when  it  loses  the  wind ; 
then  he  crossed  the  narrow  strip  of  tessellated 
pavement  that  lay  between  him  and  Rose,  and 
stood  directly  in  front  of  her. 

"  Rose,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  strange 
pallor  creeping  into  his  cheeks,  "there  have 
been  two  miracles  wrought  in  this  church  to- 
day. It  is  not  only  St.  Januarius  who  has,  in  a 
manner,  come  to  life  again.  I,  too,  have  come 
to  life.  I  have  returned  once  more  to  the  world 
of  living  men  and  women.  Do  not  send  me 
back !  Let  me  take  you  and  your  boy  to  Rus- 
sia, Rose ! " 

Rose  gave  a  start,  and  cast  a  swift,  horrified 
look  at  Whitelaw's  face. 

"  Marc !  "  she  cried,  convulsively  grasping 
the  wrist  of  the  hand  which  he  had  held  out 
to  her,  "  is  it  possible  you  have  n't  heard  — 
has  no  one  told  you  —  don't  you  know  that  I 
have  married  again  "  — 

She  stopped  abruptly,  and  released  his  wrist 


TWO   BITES   AT   A   CHERRY  225 

A  man  in  a  frayed,  well-brushed  coat,  with  a 
courier's  satchel  depending  from  a  strap  over 
his  shoulder,  was  standing  outside  the  iron 
grille  which  separated  the  chapel  from  the  main 
church. 

"  Madama,"  said  the  courier,  as  he  respect- 
fully approached  through  the  gate,  "it  is  ten 
o'clock.  The  Signor  Schuyler  and  Master 
Richard  are  waiting  with  the  carriage  at  the 
corner  of  the  Strada  dell'  Antiogolia.  They 
bade  me  inform  Madama." 


GOLIATH 


IT  was  raining  —  softly,  fluently,  persistently 

—  raining  as  it  rains  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
morning  when  you  hesitate  a  minute  or  two  at 
the  hat-stand,  and  finally  decide   not  to  take 
your  umbrella  down  town  with  you.     It  was 
one  of  those  fine  rains  —  I  am  not  praising  it 

—  which  wet  you  to  the  skin  in  about  four  sec- 
onds.    A  sharp  twenty-minutes'  walk  lay  be- 
tween my  office  in  Court  Street  and  my  rooms 
in  Huntington  Avenue.     I  was  standing  medi- 
tatively in  the  doorway  of  the  former  establish- 
ment on  the  lookout  for  a  hack  or  a  herdic. 
An  unusual  number  of  these  vehicles  were  hur- 
rying in  all  directions,  but  as  each  approached 
within  the  arc  of  my  observation  the  face  of 
some  fortunate  occupant  was  visible  through  the 
blurred  glass  of  the  closed  window. 

Presently  a  coup6  leisurely  turned  the  cor- 
ner, as  if  in  search  of  a  fare.  I  hailed  the 
driver,  and  though  he  apparently  took  no  no- 
tice of  my  gesture,  the  coupd  slowed  up  and 


GOLIATH  227 

stopped,  or  nearly  stopped,  at  the  curbstone  di- 
rectly in  front  of  me.  I  dashed  across  the  nar- 
row sidewalk,  pulled  open  the  door,  and  stepped 
into  the  vehicle.  As  I  did  so,  some  one  else  on 
the  opposite  side  performed  the  same  evolution, 
and  we  stood  motionless  for  an  instant  with  the 
crowns  of  our  hats  glued  together.  Then  we 
seated  ourselves  simultaneously,  each  by  this 
token  claiming  the  priority  of  possession. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  I  said,  "but  this  is 
my  carriage." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  was  the  equally 
frigid  reply;  "the  carriage  is  mine." 

"  I  hailed  the  man  from  that  doorway,"  I  said, 
with  firmness. 

"And  I  hailed  him  from  the  crossing." 

"But  I  signalled  him  first." 

My  companion  disdained  to  respond  to  that 
statement,  but  settled  himself  back  on  the 
cushions  as  if  he  had  resolved  to  spend  the  rest 
of  his  life  there. 

"We  will  leave  it  to  the  driver,"  I  said. 

The  subject  of  this  colloquy  now  twisted  his 
body  round  on  the  dripping  box,  and  shouted  — 

"  Where  to,  gentlemen  ?  " 

I  lowered  the  plate  glass,  and  addressed 
him  — 

"There's  a  mistake  here.  This  gentleman 
and  I  both  claim  the  coupe".  Which  of  us  first 


228  GOLIATH 

called  you?"  But  the  driver  "could  n't  tell 
t'  other  from  which,"  as  he  expressed  it.  Hav- 
ing two  fares  inside,  he  of  course  had  no  wild 
desire  to  pronounce  a  decision  that  would  neces- 
sarily cancel  one  of  them. 

The  situation  had  reached  this  awkward 
phase  when  the  intruder  leaned  forward  and  in- 
quired, with  a  total  change  in  his  intonation  — 

"Are  you  not  Mr.  David  Willis  ?" 

"That  is  my  name." 

"  I  am  Edwin  Watson  ;  we  used  to  know 
each  other  slightly  at  college." 

All  along  there  had  been  something  familiar 
to  me  in  the  man's  face,  but  I  had  attributed  it 
to  the  fact  that  I  hated  him  enough  at  first 
sight  to  have  known  him  intimately  for  ten 
years.  Of  course,  after  this,  there  was  no  fur- 
ther dispute  about  the  carriage.  Mr.  Watson 
wanted  to  go  to  the  Providence  Station,  which 
lay  directly  on  the  route  to  Huhtington  Avenue, 
and  I  was  charmed  to  have  his  company.  We 
fell  into  pleasant  chat  concerning  the  old  Har- 
vard days,  and  were  surprised  when  the  coupe 
drew  up  in  front  of  the  red-brick  clock-tower  of 
the  station. 

The  acquaintance,  thus  renewed  by  chance, 
continued.  Though  we  had  resided  six  years 
in  the  same  city,  and  had  not  met  before,  we 
were  now  continually  meeting  —  at  the  club,  at 


GOLIATH  229 

the  down-town  restaurant  where  we  lunched, 
at  various  houses  where  we  visited  in  common. 
Mr.  Watson  was  in  the  banking  business;  he 
had  been  married  one  or  two  years,  and  was 
living  out  of  town,  in  what  he  called  "  a  little 
box,"  on  the  slope  of  Blue  Hill.  He  had  once 
or  twice  invited  me  to  run  out  to  dine  and 
spend  the  night  with  him,  but  some  engage- 
ment or  other  disability  had  interfered.  One 
evening,  however,  as  we  were  playing  billiards 
at  the  St.  Botolph,  I  accepted  his  invitation  for 
a  certain  Tuesday.  Watson,  who  was  having  a 
vacation  at  the  time,  was  not  to  accompany  me 
from  town,  but  was  to  meet  me  with  his  pony- 
cart  at  Green  Lodge,  a  small  flag-station  on  the 
Providence  railroad,  two  or  three  miles  from 
The  Briers,  the  name  of  his  place. 

"  I  shall  be  proud  to  show  you  my  wife,"  he 
said,  "  and  the  baby  — and  Goliath." 

"  Goliath  ? " 

"That's  the  dog,"  answered  Watson,  with  a 
laugh.  "You  and  Goliath  ought  to  meet — • 
David  and  Goliath  !  " 

If  Watson  had  mentioned  the  dog  earlier  in 
the  conversation  I  might  have  shied  at  his  hos- 
pitality. I  may  as  well  at  once  confess  that  I 
do  not  like  dogs,  and  am  afraid  of  them.  Of 
some  things  I  am  not  afraid ;  there  have  been 
occasions  when  my  courage  was  not  to  be 


230  GOLIATH 

doubted  —  for  example,  the  night  I  secured  the 
burglar  in  my  dining-room,  and  held  him  until 
the  police  came ;  and  notably  the  day  I  had  an 
interview  with  a  young  bull  in  the  middle  of  a 
pasture,  where  there  was  not  so  much  as  a  bur- 
dock leaf  to  fly  to ;  with  my  red-silk  pocket- 
handkerchief  I  deployed  him  as  coolly  as  if  I 
had  been  a  professional  matador.  I  state  these 
unadorned  facts  in  no  vainglorious  mood.  If 
that  burglar  had  been  a  collie,  or  that  bull  a 
bull-terrier,  I  should  have  collapsed  on  the 
spot. 

No  man  can  be  expected  to  be  a  hero  in  all 
directions.  Doubtless  Achilles  himself  had  his 
secret  little  cowardice,  if  truth  were  known. 
That  acknowledged  vulnerable  heel  of  his  was 
perhaps  not  his  only  weak  point.  While  I  am 
thus  covertly  drawing  a  comparison  between 
myself  and  Achilles,  I  will  say  that  that  same 
extreme  sensitiveness  of  heel  is  also  unhappily 
mine ;  for  nothing  so  sends  a  chill  into  it,  and 
thence  along  my  vertebrae,  as  to  have  a  strange 
dog  come  up  sniffing  behind  me.  Some  in- 
scrutable instinct  has  advised  all  strange  dogs 
of  my  antipathy  and  pusillanimity. 

"  The  little  dogs  and  all, 
Tray,  Blanche,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  me." 

They  sally  forth  from  picturesque  verandas  and 
unsuspected  hidings,  to  show  their  teeth  as  I 


GOLIATH  231 

go  by.  In  a  spot  where  there  is  no  dog,  one 
will  germinate  if  he  happens  to  find  out  that  I 
am  to  pass  that  way.  Sometimes  they  follow 
me  for  miles.  Strange  dogs  that  wag  their 
tails  at  other  persons  growl  at  me  from  over 
fences,  and  across  vacant  lots,  and  at  street 
corners. 

"  So  you  keep  a  dog  ? "  I  remarked  carelessly, 
as  I  dropped  the  spot-ball  into  a  pocket. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Watson.  "  What  is  a  coun- 
try-place without  a  dog  ? " 

I  said  to  myself,  "  I  know  what  a  country- 
place  is  with  a  dog ;  it 's  a  place  I  should  pre- 
fer to  avoid." 

But  as  I  had  accepted  the  invitation,  and  as 
Watson  was  to  pick  me  up  at  Green  Lodge 
station,  and,  presumably,  see  me  safely  into 
the  house,  I  said  no  more. 

Living  as  he  did  on  a  lonely  road,  and  likely 
at  any  hour  of  the  night  to  have  a  burglar  or 
two  drop  in  on  him,  it  was  proper  that  Watson 
should  have  a  dog  on  the  grounds.  In  any 
event  he  would  have  done  so,  for  he  had  always 
had  a  maniacal  passion  for  the  canine  race.  I 
remember  his  keeping  at  Cambridge  a  bull-pup 
that  was  the  terror  of  the  neighborhood.  He 
had  his  rooms  outside  the  college  yard  in  order 
that  he  might  reside  with  this  fiend.  A  good 
mastiff  or  a  good  collie  —  if  there  are  any  good 


232  GOLIATH 

collies  and  good  mastiffs  —  is  perhaps  a  neces- 
sity to  exposed  country-houses  ;  but  what  is  the 
use  of  allowing  him  to  lie  around  loose  on  the 
landscape,  as  is  generally  done  ?  He  ought  to 
be  chained  up  until  midnight.  He  should  be 
taught  to  distinguish  between  a  burglar  and  an 
inoffensive  person  passing  along  the  highway 
with  no  intention  of  taking  anything  but  the 
air.  Men  with  a  taste  for  dogs  owe  it  to  so- 
ciety not  to  cultivate  dogs  that  have  an  indis- 
criminate taste  for  men. 

The  Tuesday  on  which  I  was  to  pass  the 
night  with  Watson  was  a  day  simply  packed 
with  evil  omens.  The  feathered  cream  at 
breakfast  struck  the  keynote  of  the  day's  irri- 
tations. Everything  went  at  cross-purposes  in 
the  office,  and  at  the  last  moment  a  tele- 
gram imperatively  demanding  an  answer  nearly 
caused  me  to  miss  that  six  o'clock  train  —  the 
only  train  that  stopped  at  Green  Lodge.  There 
were  two  or  three  thousand  other  trains  which 
did  not  stop  there.  I  was  in  no  frame  of  mind 
for  rural  pleasures  when  I  finally  seated  myself 
in  the  "  six  o'clock  accommodation  "  with  my 
gripsack  beside  me. 

The  run  from  town  to  Green  Lodge  is  about 
twenty-five  minutes,  and  the  last  stoppage  be- 
fore reaching  that  station  is  at  Readville.  We 
were  possibly  half-way  between  these  two 


GOLIATH  233 

points  when  the  train  slackened  and  came  to 
a  dead  halt  amid  some  ragged  woodland. 
Heads  were  instantly  thrust  out  of  the  windows 
right  and  left,  and  everybody's  face  was  an  in- 
terrogation. Presently  a  brakeman,  with  a  small 
red  flag  in  his  hand,  stationed  himself  some  two 
hundred  yards  in  the  rear  of  the  train,  in  order 
to  prevent  the  evening  express  from  telescoping 
us.  Then  our  engine  sullenly  detached  itself 
from  the  tender,  and  disappeared.  What  had 
happened  ?  An  overturned  gravel-car  lay  across 
the  track  a  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond.  It  was 
fully  an  hour  before  the  obstruction  was  re- 
moved, and  our  engine  had  backed  down  again 
to  its  coupling.  I  smiled  bitterly,  thinking  of 
Watson  and  his  dinner. 

The  station  at  Green  Lodge  consists  of  a 
low  platform  upon  which  is  a  shed  covered  on 
three  sides  with  unpainted  deal  boards  hacked 
nearly  to  pieces  by  tramps.  In  autumn  and 
winter  the  wind  here,  sweeping  across  the  wide 
Neponset  marshes,  must  be  cruel.  That  is 
probably  why  the  tramps  have  destroyed  their 
only  decent  shelter  between  Readville  and  Can- 
ton. On  this  evening  in  early  June,  as  I 
stepped  upon  the  platform,  the  air  was  merely 
a  ripple  and  a  murmur  among  the  maples  and 
willows. 

I  looked  around  for  Watson  and  the  pony- 


234  GOLIATH 

cart.  What  had  occurred  was  obvious.  He 
had  waited  an  hour  for  me,  and  then  driven 
home  with  the  conviction  that  the  train  must 
have  passed  before  he  got  there,  and  that  I,  for 
some  reason,  had  failed  to  come  on  it.  The 
capsized  gravel-car  was  an  episode  of  which  he 
could  have  known  nothing. 

A  walk  of  three  miles  was  not  an  inspiriting 
prospect,  and  would  not  have  been  even  if 
I  had  had  some  slight  idea  of  where  The 
Briers  was,  or  where  I  was  myself.  At  one 
side  of  the  shed,  and  crossing  the  track  at  right 
angles,  ran  a  straight,  narrow  road  that  quickly 
lost  itself  in  an  arbor  of  swamp-willows.  Be- 
yond the  tree-tops  rose  the  serrated  line  of  the 
Blue  Hills,  now  touched  with  the  twilight's 
tenderest  amethyst.  Over  there,  in  that  direc- 
tion somewhere,  lay  Watson's  domicile. 

"What  I  ought  to  have  done  to-day,"  I  re- 
flected, "was  to  stay  in  bed.  This  is  one  of 
the  days  when  I  am  unfitted  to  move  among 
my  fellow-men,  and  cope  with  the  complexities 
of  existence." 

Just  then  my  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a  cart- 
wheel grating  on  an  unoiled  axle.  It  was  a 
withered  farmer  in  a  rickety  open  wagon  slowly 
approaching  the  railroad  track,  and  going  to- 
ward the  hills  —  my  own  intended  destination. 
I  stopped  the  man  and  explained  my  dilemma. 


GOLIATH  235 

He  was  willing,  after  a  suspicious  inventory  of 
my  person,  to  give  me  a  lift  to  the  end  of  the 
Green  Lodge  road.  There  I  could  take  the  old 
turnpike.  He  believed  that  the  Watson  place 
was  half  a  mile  or  so  down  the  turnpike  toward 
Milton  way.  I  climbed  up  beside  him  with 
alacrity. 

Beyond  giving  vent  to  a  sneeze  or  two  left 
over  from  the  previous  winter,  the  old  man 
made  no  sign  of  life  as  we  drove  along.  He 
seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of  suspended  animation. 
I  was  as  little  disposed  to  talk. 

It  was  a  balmy  evening,  the  air  was  charged 
with  sweet  wood-scents,  and  here  and  there  a 
star  half  opened  an  eyelid  on  the  peaceful  dusk. 
After  the  frets  of  the  day,  it  was  soothing  thus 
to  be  drawn  at  a  snail's  pace  through  the  fra- 
grance and  stillness  of  that  fern-fringed  road, 
with  the  night  weaving  and  unweaving  its  mys- 
teries of  light  and  shade  on  either  side.  Now 
and  then  the  twitter  of  an  oriole  in  some  pen- 
dent nest  overhead  added,  as  it  were,  to  the 
silence.  I  was  yielding  myself  up  wholly  to 
the  glamour  of  the  time  and  place,  when  sud- 
denly I  thought  of  Goliath.  At  that  moment 
Goliath  was  probably  prowling  about  Watson's 
front  yard  seeking  whom  he  might  devour ;  and 
I  was  that  predestined  nourishment. 

I  knew  what  sort  of  watch-dog  Watson  would 


236  GOLIATH 

be  likely  to  keep.  There  was  a  tough  streak  in 
Watson  himself,  a  kind  of  thoroughbred  obsti- 
nacy —  the  way  he  had  held  on  to  that  coup6 
months  before  illustrated  it.  An  animal  with  a 
tenacious  grip,  and  on  the  verge  of  hydrophobia, 
was  what  would  naturally  commend  itself  to  his 
liking.  He  had  specified  Goliath,  but  may  be 
he  had  half  a  dozen  other  dragons  to  guard  his 
hillside  Hesperides.  I  had  depended  on  Wat- 
son meeting  me  at  the  station,  and  now,  when 
I  was  no  longer  expected,  I  was  forced  to 
invade  his  premises  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  and  run  the  risk  of  being  torn  limb  from 
limb  before  I  could  make  myself  known  to  the 
family.  I  recalled  Watson's  inane  remark, 
"  You  and  Goliath  ought  to  meet  —  David  and 
Goliath  ! "  It  now  struck  me  as  a  most  un- 
seemly and  heartless  pleasantry. 

These  reflections  were  not  calculated  to 
heighten  my  enjoyment  of  the  beauties  of 
nature.  The  gathering  darkness,  with  its  few 
large,  liquid  stars,  which  a  moment  before  had 
seemed  so  poetical,  began  to  fill  me  with  appre- 
hension. In  the  daylight  one  has  resources, 
but  what  on  earth  was  I  going  to  do  in  the  dark 
with  Goliath,  and,  likely  enough,  a  couple  of 
bloodhounds  at  my  throat  ?  I  wished  myself 
safely  back  among  the  crowded  streets  and 
electric  lights  of  the  city.  In  a  few  minutes 


GOLIATH  237 

more  I  was  to  be  left  alone  and  defenceless  on 
a  dismal  highway. 

When  we  reached  the  junction  of  the  Green 
Lodge  road  and  the  turnpike,  I  felt  that  I  was 
parting  from  the  only  friend  I  had  in  the  world. 
The  man  had  not  spoken  two  words  during  the 
drive,  and  now  rather  gruffly  refused  my  prof- 
fered half-dollar ;  but  I  would  have  gone  home 
with  him  if  he  had  asked  me.  I  hinted  that  it 
would  be  much  to  his  pecuniary  advantage  if  he 
were  willing  to  go  so  far  out  of  his  course  as 
the  door-step  of  Mr.  Watson's  house;  but 
either  because  wealth  had  no  charms  for  him, 
or  because  he  had  failed  to  understand  my 
proposition,  he  made  no  answer,  and,  giving  his 
mare  a  slap  with  the  ends  of  the  reins,  rattled 
off  into  space. 

On  turning  into  the  main  road  I  left  behind 
me  a  cluster  of  twinkling  lights  emitted  from 
some  dozen  or  twenty  little  cottages,  which,  as 
I  have  since  been  told,  constitute  the  village  of 
Ponkapog.  It  was  apparently  alive  with  dogs. 
I  heard  them  going  off,  one  after  another,  like 
a  string  of  Chinese  crackers,  as  the  ancient 
farmer  with  his  creaking  axle  passed  on  through 
the  village.  I  was  not  reluctant  to  leave  so 
alert  a  neighborhood,  whatever  destiny  awaited 
me  beyond. 

Fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  later  I  stood  in 


238  GOLIATH 

front  of  what  I  knew  at  a  glance  to  be  The 
Briers,  for  Watson  had  described  it  to  me. 
The  three  sharp  gables  of  his  description  had 
not  quite  melted  into  the  blackness  which  was 
rapidly  absorbing  every  object ;  and  there  too, 
but  indistinct,  were  the  twin  stone  gate-posts 
with  the  cheerful  Grecian  vases  on  top,  like  the 
entrance  to  a  cemetery. 

I  cautiously  approached  the  paling  and  looked 
over  into  the  enclosure.  It  was  gloomy  with 
shrubbery,  dwarf  spruces,  and  Norway  pines, 
and  needed  nothing  but  a  few  obelisks  and 
lachrymal  urns  to  complete  the  illusion.  In 
the  centre  of  the  space  rose  a  circular  mound 
of  several  yards  in  diameter,  piled  with  rocks, 
on  which  probably  were  mosses  and  nastur- 
tiums. It  was  too  dark  to  distinguish  anything 
clearly ;  even  the  white  gravel  walk  encircling 
the  mound  left  one  in  doubt.  The  house  stood 
well  back  on  a  slight  elevation,  with  two 
or  three  steps  leading  down  from  the  piazza. 
to  this  walk.  Here  and  there  a  strong  light 
illumined  a  lattice-window.  I  particularly  no- 
ticed one  on  the  ground  floor  in  an  ell  of  the 
building,  a  wide  window  with  diamond-shaped 
panes  —  the  dining-room.  The  curtains  were 
looped  back,  and  I  could  see  the  pretty  house- 
maid in  her  cap  coming  and  going.  She  was 
removing  the  dinner  things :  she  must  have 
long  ago  taken  away  my  unused  plate. 


GOLIATH  239 

The  contrast  between  a  brilliantly  lighted, 
luxurious  interior  and  the  bleak  night  outside 
is  a  contrast  that  never  appeals  to  me  in  vain. 
I  seldom  have  any  sympathy  for  the  outcast  in 
sentimental  fiction  until  the  inevitable  moment 
when  the  author  plants  her  against  the  area- 
railing  under  the  windows  of  the  paternal  man- 
sion. I  like  to  have  this  happen  on  an  incle- 
ment Christmas  or  Thanksgiving  eve  —  and  it 
always  does. 

But  even  on  a  pleasant  evening  in  early  June 
it  is  not  agreeable  to  find  one's  self  excluded 
from  the  family  circle,  especially  when  one  has 
travelled  fifteen  miles  to  get  there.  I  regarded 
the  inviting  facade  of  Watson's  villa,  and  then 
I  contemplated  the  sombre  and  unexplored 
tract  of  land  which  I  must  needs  traverse  in 
order  to  reach  the  door-step.  How  still  it  was ! 
The  very  stillness  had  a  sort  of  menace  in  it. 
My  imagination  peopled  those  black  interstices 
under  the  trees  with  "  gorgons  and  hydras  and 
chimaeras  dire."  There  certainly  was  an  air  of 
latent  dog  about  the  place,  though  as  yet  no  dog 
had  developed.  However,  unless  I  desired  to 
rouse  the  inmates  from  their  beds,  I  saw  that  I 
ought  to  announce  myself  without  much  fur- 
ther delay.  I  softly  opened  the  gate,  which, 
having  a  heavy  ball-and-chain  attachment,  im- 
mediately slipped  from  my  hand  and  slammed 
to  with  a  bang  as  I  stepped  within. 


240  GOLIATH 

I  was  not  surprised,  but  I  was  paralyzed  all 
the  same,  at  instantly  hearing  the  familiar 
sound  of  a  watch-dog  suddenly  rushing  from 
his  kennel.  The  kennel  in  this  instance  was 
on  a  piazza:  a  convenient  arrangement — for 
the  dog  —  in  case  of  visitors. 

The  next  sound  I  heard  was  the  scrabble  of 
the  animal's  four  paws  as  he  landed  on  the 
gravelled  pathway.  There  he  hesitated,  irreso- 
lute, as  if  he  were  making  up  his  diabolical 
mind  which  side  of  the  mound  he  would  take. 
He  neither  growled  nor  barked  in  the  interim, 
being  evidently  one  of  those  wide-mouthed,  reti- 
cent brutes  that  mean  business  and  indulge  in 
no  vain  flourish. 

I  held  my  breath,  and  waited.  Presently  I 
heard  him  stealthily  approaching  me  on  the 
left.  I  at  once  hastened  up  the  right-hand 
path,  having  tossed  my  gripsack  in  his  direc- 
tion, with  the  hope  that  while  he  was  engaged 
in  tearing  it  to  pieces,  I  might  possibly  be  able 
to  reach  the  piazza  and  ring  the  door-bell. 

My  ruse  failed,  however,  and  the  gripsack, 
which  might  have  served  as  a  weapon  of  de- 
fence, had  been  sacrificed.  The  dog  continued 
his  systematic  approach,  and  I  was  obliged  to 
hurry  past  the  piazza-steps.  A  few  seconds 
brought  me  back  to  the  point  of  my  departure. 
Superficially  considered,  the  garden-gate,  which 


GOLIATH  241 

now  lay  at  my  hand,  offered  a  facile  mode  of 
escape ;  but  I  was  ignorant  of  the  fastenings ; 
I  had  forgotten  which  way  it  swung ;  besides, 
it  was  unfortunately  necessary  that  I  should 
continue  on  my  circular  journey. 

So  far  as  I  could  judge,  the  dog  was  now 
about  three  yards  in  my  rear ;  I  was  unable  to 
see  him,  but  I  could  plainly  detect  his  quick 
respiration,  and  his  deliberate  footfalls  on  the 
gravel.  I  wondered  why  he  did  not  spring  upon 
me  at  once ;  but  he  knew  he  had  his  prey,  he 
knew  I  was  afraid  of  him,  and  he  was  playing 
with  me  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse.  In  cer- 
tain animals  there  is  a  refinement  of  cruelty 
which  sometimes  makes  them  seem  almost 
human.  If  I  believed  in  the  transmigration  of 
souls,  I  should  say  that  the  spirit  of  Caligula 
had  passed  into  dogs,  and  that  of  Cleopatra  into 
cats. 

It  is  easily  conceivable  that  I  made  no  such 
reflection  at  the  moment,  for  by  this  time  my 
brisk  trot  had  turned  into  a  run,  and  I  was  spin- 
ning around  the  circle  at  the  rate  of  ten  miles 
an  hour,  with  the  dog  at  my  heels.  Now  I  shot 
by  the  piazza,  and  now  past  the  gate,  until 
presently  I  ceased  to  know  which  was  the  gate 
and  which  the  piazza.  I  believe  that  I  shouted 
"Watson!"  once  or  twice,  no  doubt  at  the 
wrong  place,  but  I  do  not  remember.  At  all 


242  GOLIATH 

events,  I  failed  to  make  myself  heard.  My 
brain  was  in  such  confusion  that  at  intervals  I 
could  not  for  the  soul  of  me  tell  whether  I  was 
chasing  the  dog,  or  the  dog  was  chasing  me. 
Now  I  almost  felt  his  nose  at  my  heel,  and  now 
I  seemed  upon  the  point  of  trampling  him 
underfoot. 

My  swift  rotatory  movement,  combined  with 
the  dinner  which  I  had  not  had,  soon  induced 
a  sort  of  vertigo.  It  was  a  purely  unreasoning 
instinct  that  prevented  me  from  flying  off  at 
a  tangent  and  plunging  into  the  shrubbery. 
Strange  lights  began  to  come  into  my  eyes,  and 
in  one  of  those  phosphorescent  gleams  I  saw 
a  shapeless  black  object  lying,  or  crouching,  in 
my  path.  I  automatically  kicked  it  into  the 
outer  darkness.  It  was  only  my  derby  hat, 
which  had  fallen  off  on  one  of  the  previous 
trips. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  confused  state  of  my 
mind.  The  right  lobe  of  my  brain  had  sus- 
pended all  natural  action,  but  with  the  other 
lobe  I  was  enabled  to  speculate  on  the  probable 
duration  of  my  present  career.  In  spite  of  my 
terror,  an  ironical  smile  crept  to  my  lips  as  I 
reflected  that  I  might  perhaps  keep  this  thing 
up  until  sunrise,  unless  a  midnight  meal  was 
one  of  the  dog's  regular  habits.  A  prolonged 
angry  snarl  now  and  then  admonished  me  that 
his  patience  was  about  exhausted. 


GOLIATH  243 

I  had  accomplished  the  circuit  of  the  mound 
for  the  tenth  —  possibly  the  twentieth  —  time 
(I  cannot  be  positive),  when  the  front  door  of 
the  villa  was  opened  with  a  jerk,  and  Watson, 
closely  followed  by  the  pretty  housemaid, 
stepped  out  upon  the  piazza.  He  held  in  his 
hand  a  German  student-lamp,  which  he  came 
within  an  ace  of  dropping  as  the  light  fell  upon 
my  countenance. 

"  Good  heavens  !  Willis ;  is  this  you  ?  Where 
did  you  tumble  from  ?  What 's  become  of  your 
hat  ?  How  did  you  get  here  ?  " 

"Six  o'clock  train  —  Green  Lodge  —  white 
horse  —  old  man  —  I  "  — 

Suddenly  the  pretty  housemaid  descended 
the  steps  and  picked  up  from  the  gravelled  path 
a  little  panting,  tremulous  wad  of  something  — 
not  more  than  two  handfuls  at  most  —  which 
she  folded  tenderly  to  her  bosom. 

"What 's  that  ? "  I  asked. 

"That's  Goliath,"  said  Watson. 


THE   CHEVALIER  DE 
RESSEGUIER 


I  AM  unable  to  explain  the  impulse  that 
prompted  me  to  purchase  it.  I  had  no  use  for 
a  skull  — excepting,  of  course,  the  one  I  am 
temporarily  occupying.  There  have  been  mo- 
ments, indeed,  when  even  that  has  seemed  to 
me  an  encumbrance.  Nevertheless,  I  bought 
another. 

It  was  one  of  three  specimens  which  dec- 
orated the  window  of  a  queer  bookshop  that  I 
was  in  the  habit  of  passing  in  my  daily  walks 
between  the  railroad  station  and  the  office  of 
the  ^Esthetic  Review.  I  was  then  living  out 
of  town.  I  call  it  a  queer  bookshop,  for  it  was 
just  that.  It  dealt  in  none  but  works  on  phre- 
nology, toxicology,  evolution,  mesmerism,  spirit- 
ualism, and  kindred  occult  sciences.  Against 
the  door-jambs,  and  on  some  shelves  outside, 
were  piled  small  packages  of  quaintly  bound 


THE    CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER    245 

volumes,  each  set  tied  up  with  a  piece  of  frayed 
twine,  and  bearing  a  tag  on  which  was  written 
the  title  of  the  work.  These  thin,  dingy  oc- 
tavos and  twelvemos,  looking  as  if  they  might 
have  come  out  of  some  mediaeval  library,  were 
chiefly  treatises  of  a  psychical  and  social  nature, 
and  were  no  doubt  daringly  speculative.  The 
patrons  of  the  establishment  shared  its  eccen- 
tricity. Now  and  then  I  caught  sight  of  a  cus- 
tomer either  entering  or  leaving  the  shop. 
Sometimes  it  was  a  half-shabby  middle-aged 
man,  who  seemed  a  cross  between  a  low  come- 
dian and  a  village  undertaker;  sometimes  it 
was  a  German  or  a  Pole,  cadaverous,  heavy- 
bearded,  with  a  restlessness  about  the  eyes  —  a 
fellow  that  might  be  suspected  of  carrying 
dynamite  pellets  in  his  waistcoat  pocket ;  and 
sometimes  it  was  an  elderly  female,  severe  of 
aspect,  with  short  hair  in  dry  autumnal  curls, 
evidently  a  person  with  advanced  views  on 
Man,  and  so  flat  in  figure,  so  wholly  denuded 
of  graceful  feminine  curves,  as  to  make  it  diffi- 
cult for  one  to  determine,  when  she  lingered  an 
instant  in  the  doorway,  whether  she  was  going 
in  or  coming  out. 

What  first  attracted  my  attention  to  the 
shop-window  was  a  plaster  bust  of  the  Young 
Augustus,  for  which  a  copy  of  Malthus  on 
The  Principle  of  Population  served  as  pedes- 


246    THE   CHEVALIER  DE   RESSEGUIER 

tal.  The  cranium  had  been  neatly  marked  out 
into  irregular,  variously  colored  sections,  like  a 
map  of  the  United  States.  In  each  section 
was  a  Roman  numeral,  probably  having  its 
duplicate  with  an  attendant  explanation  in  the 
phrenological  chart  which  lay  in  front  of  the 
bust.  That  first  caught  my  eye ;  but  the  ob- 
ject which  touched  my  real  interest,  and  held 
it,  was  what  I  took  to  be  a  skilful  imitation  of 
the  human  skull,  carved  in  rich  old  ivory.  It 
struck  me  as  a  consummate  little  piece  of 
sculpture,  and  I  admired  it  greatly.  After 
closer  and  repeated  scrutiny,  however,  I  dis- 
covered that  it  was  not  a  reproduction,  but  the 
genuine  article ;  yet  I  could  never  wholly  divest 
myself  of  its  first  impression  as  a  work  of  art. 
A  work  of  art,  indeed !  It  was  one  of  a  kind 
on  which  patient  Nature  has  lavished  some  of 
her  most  exquisite  handicraft.  What  inanimate 
object  on  earth  so  appeals  to  the  imagination  as 
a  skull,  the  deserted  "dome  of  thought,  the 
palace  of  the  soul,"  as  Byron  called  it  ?  Rever- 
ently regarded,  there  is  nothing  depressing  or 
repellent  in  it.  That  is  a  false  and  morbid 
sentimentalism  which  sees  in  such  relics  any- 
thing but  a  solemn  and  beautiful  mystery. 

There  were,  as  I  have  said,  two  other  speci- 
mens in  the  window,  but  the  one  signalized  was 
incomparably  the  finest.  I  seldom  passed  near 


THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER    247 

the  shop  without  halting  a  moment  to  contem- 
plate the  wide,  placid  brows,  in  which  there 
was  a  beauty  of  even  a  finer  kind  than  that  in 
the  face  of  the  Young  Augustus,  in  spite  of 
the  latter  having  all  the  advantage  of  completed 
features.  The  skull  was  apparently  very  old  — 
say  a  hundred  years  or  so,  if  that  is  old  for  a 
skull ;  and  had  clearly  belonged  to  a  man  past 
the  prime  of  life  at  the  instant  of  his  quitting 
it.  It  was  a  curious  reflection  that  while  time 
had  ceased  for  the  man  himself,  the  inexorable 
years  were  surely,  though  slowly  and  impercep- 
tibly, working  their  will  on  what  was  once  so 
intimate  a  part  of  him,  the  cast-off  shell  of  his 
mind ! 

Passing  the  shop  day  after  day  through  those 
summer  months,  I  finally  became,  if  the  phrase 
is  permissible,  on  familiar  terms  with  the  skull. 
As  I  approached  it  morning  and  evening,  on 
my  passage  to  and  fro,  it  grew  to  seem  to  me 
like  the  face  of  a  friend  in  the  crowd  —  a  face 
that  I  should  have  missed  if  it  had  been  absent. 
Once  or  twice  as  the  declining  sun  chanced 
momentarily  to  light  up  the  polished  marble 
brows,  I  almost  fancied  that  I  detected  a  gleam 
of  recognition  on  the  part  of  the  mask.  It 
had  such  an  air  of  shrewdness  as  it  looked  out 
on  the  busy  life  of  the  street !  "  What,"  I  said 
to  myself  one  evening  —  "  what  if  by  any  pos- 


248    THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER 

sibility  it  has  some  dim  perception  of  the  fret 
and  fever  of  it  all  —  if  some  little  nickering 
spark  of  consciousness  still  lingers !  " 

The  idea,  fanciful  and  illogical  as  it  was,  sug- 
gested itself  to  my  mind  from  time  to  time, 
and  one  afternoon  the  pathos  of  it  thrilled  me 
strangely.  I  had  a  swift  desire  to  take  posses- 
sion of  the  skull,  and  give  it  decent  sepulture 
somewhere,  though  that  would  have  been  no 
kindly  service  if  it  were  a  sentient  thing.  At 
any  rate,  I  resolved  to  shelter  it  from  further 
publicity,  and  a  moment  afterward  I  found  my- 
self inside  the  old  bookshop,  and  in  close  com- 
mercial relations  with  the  proprietor,  a  moist- 
eyed  but  otherwise  desiccated  little  man,  whose 
pince-nez,  attached  by  an  elastic  cord  and  set 
at  an  acute  angle  on  his  nose,  was  continually 
dropping  into  his  shirt -bosom.  There  was 
something  in  the  softness  of  his  voice  and  the 
meekness  of  his  manner  out  of  all  keeping 
with  the  revolutionary  and  explosive  literature 
amid  which  he  passed  his  existence. 

"No,"  he  said  gently,  in  reply  to 'a  question 
I  had  put  to  him  ;  "  I  cannot  say  whose  it  was. 
Of  course,"  he  added,  with  a  feeble  smile  that 
had  something  of  the  pensiveness  of  a  sigh, 
"  it  must  have  belonged  to  some  one  in  partic- 
ular ;  such  things  are  not  generally  in  com- 
mon." 


THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER     249 

"  I  quite  understand  that,"  I  returned.  "  I 
merely  thought  it  might  possibly  have  some  sort 
of  pedigree.  Have  you  any  idea  how  old  it 
is?" 

"  There,  too,  I  am  in  the  dark,"  he  replied 
deprecatingly.  "  It  stood  in  the  shop-window 
when  I  came  here  as  a  boy,  somewhat  more 
than  fifty  years  ago.  I  distinctly  remember 
upsetting  it  the  very  first  morning  I  swept  out 
the  store.  Where  old  Mr.  Waldron  got  it  —  I 
succeeded  to  the  business  in  1859  ;  w^  vou  ^ 
me  give  you  one  of  my  cards  ?  —  and  how  long 
he  had  had  it  in  stock,  I  am  unable  to  state.  It 
is  in  perfect  preservation,  you  will  observe,  and 
a  gentleman  wanting  anything  in  this  line, 
either  for  a  collection  or  as  a  single  specimen, 
could  scarcely  do  better." 

As  the  ancient  bookseller  spoke,  he  held  out 
the  skull  on  his  palm  at  arm's  length,  and  re- 
garded it  critically,  giving  a  little  purring  hum 
of  admiration  meanwhile.  I  straightway  thought 
of  the  grave-digger  in  the  churchyard  at  Elsi- 
nore,  and  inwardly  repeated  Hamlet's  com- 
ment :  "  Hath  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  his 
business,  that  he  sings  at  grave-making  ?  " 

I  was  without  definite  views  concerning  the 
current  prices  of  the  merchandise  I  was  about 
to  purchase,  but  supposed  that  they  ran  rather 
high.  I  was  astonished  by  the  smallness  of 


250    THE   CHEVALIER  DE  RESSEGUIER 

the  sum  named  for  the  skull  —  a  sum  at  which 
I  should  hesitate  to  part  with  my  own,  unless 
it  were  in  some  acute  crisis  of  neuralgic  head- 
ache. 

The  transaction  concluded,  I  had  an  instant's 
embarrassment.  "  Could  n't  you  wrap  this  in 
something  ? "  I  said. 

"  Certainly,  to  be  sure !  "  exclaimed  the  little 
man,  fishing  up  his  eye-glasses  for  the  twen- 
tieth time  from  the  deep  sea  of  his  shirt-bosom. 
"  Perhaps  you  would  like  it  sent  ?  If  you  will 
give  me  your  address  "  — 

"No,  thanks.  I  live  out  of  town.  I  will  take 
it  with  me." 

"Ah,  quite  so,"  he  said,  and,  retiring  to  an 
inner  room,  presently  returned  with  the  skull 
neatly  wrapped  in  a  sheet  or  two  of  pink  tissue- 
paper. 

I  put  it  under  my  arm,  and  passed  into  the 
street,  trying  to  throw  into  my  countenance 
the  expression  of  a  man  who  is  carrying  home 
a  melon.  I  succeeded  so  far  in  this  duplicity 
as  to  impose  on  my  wife,  who,  meeting  me  on 
the  piazza  of  our  little  country-house,  gayly 
snatched  the  package  from  my  hand,  and  re- 
marked — 

"  We  will  have  it  for  dinner,  dear !  " 

We  both  were  smiling  as  we  entered  the 
house.  In  the  meanwhile  she  was  peeling  off 
the  layers  of  tissue-paper. 


THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER    251 

"But  it  isn't  a  melon!"  cried  my  wife,  has- 
tily laying  the  package  on  the  hall  table. 

"No,  dear,"  I  said  ;  "it 's  a  skull." 

«  A  skull  ?  How  dreadful !  Where  did  you 
get  it  ?  Whose  skull  ?  " 

"  It  is  mine  —  so  far  as  such  property  can 
be  —  for  I  bought  it.  It  is  more  distinctly 
mine  than  the  one  I  have,  which  I  did  n't  buy 
and  pay  for,  but  which  was  thrown  upon  my 
hands,  so  to  speak,  without  any  regard  to  my 
personal  wishes  in  the  matter.  This  one  I 
wanted." 

"  But,  my  dear,  what  possessed  you  ?  It  is 
perfectly  horrid !  " 

"  It  is  perfectly  beautiful,  my  love,  and  it  has 
the  highest  moral  significance.  It  is  probable 
that  the  original  wearer  of  it  conveyed  no  such 
deep  lesson  to  his  contemporaries  as  this  sur- 
viving framework  of  him  may  have  for  us. 
The  wise  Athenians  always  had  a  skull  at  their 
banquets,  to  remind  them  of  the  transitoriness 
and  vanity  of  life.  So,  after  all,  we  can  have 
it  for  dinner,  dear.  Gazing  upon  this  symbol 
of  impermanence,  you  will  no  longer  envy  Mrs. 
Midas  her  coupe",  and  I  shall  feel  that  old  Mi- 
das's  balance  at  the  bank  is  not  worth  having, 
and  that  his  ponderous  new  granite  chateau, 
which  completely  cuts  off  our  view  of  the  river, 
is  a  thing  of  shifting  sand.  As  a  literary  critic 


252    THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER 

too  much  inclined,  perhaps,  to  be  severe  on  the 
shortcomings  of  fellow-creatures  whose  gifts 
are  superior  to  mine,  I  need  just  such  a  me- 
mento mori  to  restrain  my  natural  intolerance." 

"  How  absurd  !  What  do  you  mean  to  do 
with  it  ? " 

"I  intend  to  put  it  on  the  faience  bracket 
over  the  end  window  in  the  library." 

"Is  it  entirely  appropriate  as  an  ornament, 
dear  ?  Is  n't  it  a  trifle  —  ghostly  ? " 

"It  is  decidedly  appropriate.  What  are 
books  themselves  but  the  lingering  shades  of 
dead  and  gone  historians,  story-tellers,  and 
poets  ?  Every  library  is  full  of  ghosts,  the  air 
is  thick  with  them." 

"I  am  sure  Jane  will  give  us  warning  the 
moment  she  lays  eyes  on  it." 

"  Then  Jane  can  retire  with  her  own  silly 
head-piece." 

"  It  will  certainly  terrify  little  Alfred." 

"  If  it  prevents  little  Alfred  from  playing  in 
the  library  during  my  absence,  and  breaking 
the  amber  mouth-pieces  off  my  best  pipes,  I 
shall  not  complain.  But,  seriously,  I  set  a 
value  on  this  ancient  relic — a  value  which  I 
cannot  easily  make  clear  even  to  myself.  In 
speaking  of  the  matter  I  have  drifted  into  a 
lighter  vein  than  I  intended.  The  thing  will 
not  be  out  of  place  among  the  books  and  bric-a- 


THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER     253 

brae  in  the  library,  where  no  one  spends  much 
time,  excepting  myself ;  so,  like  a  good  girl,  say 
no  more  about  it." 

The  question  thus  pleasantly  settled  itself. 
I  had  scarcely  installed  my  singular  acquisition 
on  the  bracket  when  I  was  called  to  dinner.  I 
paused  a  moment  or  two  with  my  hand  on  the 
knob  of  the  library  door  to  take  in  the  general 
effect  from  that  point  of  view.  The  skull,  which 
in  widely  different  surroundings  had  become 
a  familiar  object  to  me,  adapted  itself  admirably 
to  its  new  milieu.  There  was  nothing  incon- 
gruous or  recent  in  its  aspect ;  it  seemed  always 
to  have  stood  just  there,  though  the  bracket  had 
for  years  been  occupied  by  a  slender  Venetian 
vase,  a  bit  of  Salviati's  fragile  workmanship, 
which  only  a  few  days  previously  had  been 
blown  from  its  stand  by  a  draught  caused  by 
the  sudden  opening  of  the  door. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  it  will  do  very  well.  There 's 
nothing  like  it  to  give  a  tone  to  a  library." 


II 

"WiLL  you  take  your  coffee  here,  or  have  it 
in  the  library  ? "  asked  my  wife,  while  Jane  was 
removing  the  remains  of  the  dessert. 

"In  the  library,"  I  said;  "and  as  soon  as 
Jane  can  fetch  it.  I  must  finish  that  review  to- 
night." 

When  I  bought  the  small  house,  half  villa, 
half  chalet,  called  Redroof,  I  added  a  two-story 
extension  containing  a  spacious  study  on  the 
ground  floor  and  a  bedroom  over  it.  As  I  fre- 
quently sat  up  late,  and  as  Redroof  was  in 
a  rather  isolated  situation,  I  liked  to  be  within 
speaking-distance  of  my  wife.  By  locking  the 
doors  of  the  upper  and  lower  vestibules,  which 
were  connected  by  a  staircase,  we  wholly  sepa- 
rated ourselves  from  the  main  building.  The 
library  was  a  long  low-studded  apartment  with 
three  windows  on  each  side,  and  at  the  end 
opposite  the  door  a  wide-mullioned  lattice,  with 
lead-set  panes,  overlooking  a  stretch  of  lonely 
meadows.  The  quiet  and  seclusion  of  the  room 
made  it  an  ideal  spot  for  literary  undertakings, 


THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER     255 

and  here  it  was  that  I  did  the  greater  part  of 
my  work. 

Now  I  had  an  important  piece  of  work  on 
hand  this  night,  and  after  I  had  drunk  my  cof- 
fee I  began  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  certain 
half-completed  manuscript,  with  the  despairing 
consciousness  that  I  was  not  in  a  mood  to  go 
on  with  it.  The  article  in  question  was  a  study 
of  political  intrigue  during  the  reigns  of  Louis 
XV.  and  Louis  XVI.  The  subject  had  fasci- 
nated me;  for  a  week  I  had  been  unable  to 
think  of  anything  else,  and  the  first  part  of  the 
article  had  almost  written  itself.  But  now  I 
found  it  impossible  to  pick  up  the  threads  of 
my  essay.  My  mind  refused  concentration  on 
any  single  point.  A  hundred  things  I  wanted 
to  say  rushed  upon  me  simultaneously,  and  so 
jostled  and  obscured  one  another  as  to  create 
nothing  but  confusion.  This  congestion  of 
ideas  is  quite  as  perplexing  as  their  total  ab- 
sence, and  the  result  is  the  same.  I  threw 
down  my  pen  in  disgust,  and,  placing  one  elbow 
on  the  desk,  rested  my  cheek  on  my  palm.  I 
had  remained  in  that  attitude  for  perhaps  three 
minutes  when  I  heard  a  voice  —  a  low  but  dis- 
tinct voice  —  saying  — 

"  I  beg  monsieur's  pardon,  but  if  I  interrupt 
him  "  — 

I  instantly  wheeled  round  in  my  chair,  ex- 


256    THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER 

pecting  to  see  some  one  standing  on  the  Bok 
hara  rug  behind  me,  though  in  the  very  act  of 
turning  I  reflected  how  nearly  impossible  it  was 
that  any  visitor  could  have  got  into  the  library 
at  that  time  of  night.  There  was  nobody  visi- 
ble. I  glanced  toward  the  door  leading  into 
the  vestibule.  It  was  unlikely  that  that  door 
could  have  been  opened  and  closed  without  my 
observing  it. 

"I  beg  monsieur's  pardon,"  repeated  the 
voice,  "but  I  am  here  —  on  the  bracket." 

"  Oh,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  I  am  careering 
round  on  the  wildest  of  nightmares  —  one  that 
has  never  before  had  a  saddle  on  her.  Clearly 
this  is  the  result  of  over- work."  My  next  im- 
pression was  that  I  was  being  made  the  victim 
of  some  ingenious  practical  joke.  But  no ;  the 
voice  had  incontestably  issued  from  the  little 
shelf  above  the  window,  and  though  the  effect 
might  have  been  accomplished  by  some  acoustic 
contrivance,  there  was  no  one  in  the  house  or 
in  the  neighborhood  capable  of  conceiving  it. 
Since  the  thing  was  for  the  moment  inexpli- 
cable, I  decided  to  accept  it  on  its  own  terms. 
Recovering  my  composure,  and  fixing  my  eyes 
steadily  in  the  direction  of  the  bracket,  I 
said  — 

"  Are  you  the  person  who  just  addressed 
me  ? " 


THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER    257 

"  I  am  not  a  person,  monsieur,"  replied  the 
voice  slowly,  as  if  with  difficulty  at  first,  and 
with  an  unmistakable  French  accent;  "I  am 
merely  a  conscience,  an  intelligence  imprisoned 
in  this  sphere.  Formerly  I  was  a  person  —  a 
person  of  some  slight  distinction,  if  I  may  be 
permitted  so  much  egotism.  Possibly  monsieur 
has  heard  of  me  —  I  am  the  Chevalier  de 
Resseguier." 

Mechanically  I  threw  a  sheet  of  blotting- 
paper  over  the  last  page  of  my  manuscript. 
Not  five  minutes  previously  I  had  written  the 
following  sentence  —  the  ink  was  still  fresh  on 
the  words :  Among  the  other  intimates  of 
Madame  du  Barry  at  this  period  was  an  adven- 
turer from  Toulouse,  a  pseudo  man-of- letters,  a 
sort  of  prowling  epigram  —  one  Chevalier  DE 
RESSEGUIER  ! 

I  had  never  been  a  believer  in  spiritualistic 
manifestations,  perhaps  for  the  simple  reason 
that  I  had  never  been  fortunate  enough  to  wit- 
ness any.  Hitherto  all  phenomena  had  sedu- 
lously avoided  me;  but  here  was  a  mystery 
that  demanded  consideration  —  something  that 
was  not  to  be  explained  away  on  the  theory 
that  my  senses  had  deceived  me,  something 
that  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research  would 
have  been  glad  to  get  hold  of.  I  found  myself 
for  once  face  to  face  with  the  Unusual,  and  I 


258    THE   CHEVALIER  DE  RESSEGUIER 

did  not  mean  to  allow  it  to  daunt  me.  What 
is  seemingly  supernatural,  is  not  always  to  be 
taken  too  seriously.  The  astrology  of  one  age 
becomes  the  astronomy  of  the  next ;  the  magi- 
cian disappears  in  the  scientist.  Perhaps  it 
was  an  immense  curiosity  rather  than  any  spirit 
of  scientific  investigation  that  gave  steadiness 
to  my  nerves ;  for  I  was  now  as  cool  and 
collected  as  if  a  neighbor  had  dropped  in  to 
spend  an  hour  with  me.  I  placed  the  German 
student-lamp  further  back  on  the  desk,  crossed 
my  legs,  and  settled  myself  comfortably  in  the 
chair,  like  a  person  disposed  to  be  sociable. 

"Did  I  understand  you  to  say,"  I  asked 
with  deliberation,  "  that  you  were  the  Chevalier 
de  Resseguier  ? " 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"  The  Chevalier  de  Resseguier  whom  Madame 
de  Pompadour  once  sent  to  the  Bastille  for 
writing  a  certain  vivacious  quatrain  ?  " 

"  Ah,  monsieur  knows  me !  I  was  certain  of 
it !  " 

"  The  Chevalier  de  Resseguier  who  fluttered 
round  the  Du  Barry  at  the  time  of  her  d^but, 
and  later  on  figures  in  one  or  two  chapters  of 
her  lively  Me" moires  ?  " 

"What!  did  the  fair  Jeannette  give  her 
M6moires  to  the  world,  and  do  I  figure  in 
them  ?  Well,  well !  She  had  many  talents,  la 


THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER     259 

belle  Du  Barry  ;  she  was  of  a  cleverness !  but 
I  never  suspected  her  of  being  a  has  bleu. 
And  so  she  wrote  her  Memoires ! " 

"  Were  you  not  aware  of  it  ?  " 

"  Alas,  monsieur,  I  know  of  nothing  that  has 
happened  since  that  fatal  July  morning  in  '93 
when  M.  Sanson  —  it  was  on  the  Place  Louis 
Quinze  —  chut !  and  all  was  over." 

"  You  mean  you  were  "  — 

"  Guillotined  ?  Certainement  !  —  thanks  to 
M.  Fouquier-Tinville.  At  that  epoch  everybody 
of  any  distinction  passed  through  the  hands  of 
the  exfauteur  des  hautes  azuvres  —  a  polite 
euphuism,  monsieur.  They  were  regenerating 
society  in  France  by  cutting  off  the  only  heads 
that  had  any  brains  in  them.  Ah,  monsieur, 
though  some  few  of  us  may  not  have  known 
how  to  live,  nearly  all  of  us  knew  how  to  die  !  " 

Though  this  De  Resseguier  had  been  in  his 
time  a  rascal  of  the  first  water  —  I  had  it  down 
in  black  and  white  in  my  historical  memoranda 
—  there  certainly  was  about  him  something  of 
that  chivalric  dash,  that  ornateness  of  manner, 
that  delightful  insouciance  which  we  associate 
with  the  XVIIP  siecle.  This  air  of  high-breed- 
ing was  no  doubt  specious,  a  thing  picked  up 
at  the  gateway  of  that  gilded  society  which  his 
birth  and  condition  prevented  him  from  enter- 
ing. The  De  Choiseuls,  the  De  Maupeous,  the 


260    THE   CHEVALIER  DE   RESSEGUIER 

D'Aiguillons  —  they  were  not  for  him.  But  he 
had  breathed  in  a  rich  literary  atmosphere,  per- 
haps had  spoken  with  Beaumarchais,  or  Rous- 
seau, or  Marmontel,  or  Diderot  —  at  least  he 
had  seen  them.  He  had  known  his  Paris  well, 
that  Paris  which  had  a  mot  and  a  laugh  on  its 
lip  until  the  glittering  knife  fell.  He  had  wit- 
nessed the  assembling  of  the  Etats  Ge'neraux ; 
had  listened  to  Camille  Desmoulins  haranguing 
the  populace  from  his  green  table  in  the  garden 
of  the  Palais  Royal ;  had  gazed  upon  Citizen 
Marat  lying  in  state  at  the  Pantheon ;  and  had 
watched  poor  Louis  Capet  climb  the  scaffold 
stairs.  Was  he  not  "  a  mine  of  memories," 
this  Chevalier  de  Resseguier  ?  If  the  chevalier 
had  had  a  grain  of  honesty  in  him,  I  might  have 
secured  fresh  and  precious  material  for  my 
essay  —  some  unedited  fact,  some  hitherto  un- 
used tint  of  local  color ;  but  I  had  his  measure, 
and  he  was  not  to  be  trusted.  So  I  attempted 
nothing  of  the  sort,  though  the  opportunity  of 
interrogating  him  on  certain  points  was  alluring. 

The  silence  which  followed  the  chevalier's 
last  remark  was  broken  by  myself. 

"  Chevalier,"  I  said,  "  it  is  with  great  hesita- 
tion that  I  broach  so  delicate  a  matter,  but 
your  mention  of  M.  Sanson  recalls  to  my  mind 
the  controversy  that  raged  among  physiologists, 
at  the  close  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  on  a  ques- 


THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER     261 

tion  similar  to  the  one  which  is  at  this  moment 
occupying  our  electricians.  It  was  held  by 
the  eminent  Dr.  Sue  that  decapitation  involved 
prolonged  and  exquisite  suffering,  while  the 
equally  eminent  Dr.  S&Iillot  contended  that 
pain  was  simply  impossible,  an  opinion  which 
was  sustained  by  the  learned  Gastellier.  Will 
you,  Chevalier,  for  the  sake  of  science,  pardon 
me  if  I  ask  you  —  was  it  quite  painless  ?  " 

"M.  le  docteur  Sedillot  was  correct,  mon- 
sieur. Imagine  a  sensation  a  thousand  times 
swifter  than  the  swiftest  thought,  and  mon- 
sieur has  it." 

"  What  followed  then  ?  " 

"  Darkness  and  sleep." 

"  For  how  long,  Chevalier  ? " 

"  An  hour  —  a  month  —  a  year  —  what 
know  I ? " 

"  And  then  "  — 

"  A  glimmering  light,  consciousness,  the  past 
a  vivid  reality,  the  present  almost  a  blur.  Voild 
tout!" 

"  In  effect,  Chevalier,  you  had  left  the  world 
behind  you,  taking  with  you  nothing  but  your 
personal  memories  —  a  light  luggage,  after  all ! 
As  you  are  unfamiliar  with  everything  that  has 
occurred  since  that  July  morning,  possibly  it 
may  interest  you  to  learn  that  on  December  7, 
1793 — five  months  subsequent  to  your  own 


262    THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER 

departure  —  the  Comtesse  du  Barry  was  sum- 
moned before  the  Tribunal  Revolutionnaire, 
and  the  next  day  "  — 

"  She,  too  —  la  pauvre  petite  !  I  can  fancy 
her  not  liking  that  at  all." 

"  Indeed,  Chevalier,  the  countess  showed  but 
faltering  fortitude  on  this  occasion.  It  is  re- 
ported that  she  cried,  '  Grdce,  monsieur  le  bour- 
reati ;  encore  un  moment  ! '  It  was  not  for  such 
as  she  to  mount  the  scaffold  with  the  tread  of 
a  Charlotte  Corday." 

"  Ma  foiy  non  !  She  was  a  frank  coquine, 
when  truth  is  said.  But  who  is  all  bad  ?  She 
was  not  treacherous  like  Felicite  de  Nesle,  nor 
vindictive  like  the  Duchesse  de  Chateauroux. 
There  was  not  a  spark  of  malice  in  her,  mon- 
sieur. When  it  was  easy  for  her  to  do  so,  the 
Du  Barry  never  employed  against  her  enemies 
—  and  she  had  many  —  those  lettres  de  cachet 
which  used  to  fly  in  flocks,  like  blackbirds, 
from  the  hand  of  Madame  de  Pompadour." 

"  It  is  creditable  to  your  heart,  Chevalier  — 
or,  rather,  to  your  head  —  that  you  have  a 
kindly  word  for  Madame  du  Barry." 

"  To  be  sure  she  thrust  her  adorable  arm  up 
to  the  elbow  in  the  treasure-chest  of  Louis  le 
bien-aime',  but  then  she  was  generous.  She 
patronized  art  —  and  sometimes  literature.  The 
painter  and  the  sculptor  did  not  go  unpaid  — 


THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER     263 

elle  donnait  d  detix  mains.  Possibly  monsieur 
has  seen  Pajou's  bust  of  her  ?  Quel  chef- 
d'oeuvre  !  And  that  portrait  by  Drouais  —  le 
joli  museau  !  " 

"  I  have  seen  the  bust,"  I  replied,  glad  to 
escape  into  the  rarefied  atmosphere  of  the 
arts ;  "  it  is  in  the  Louvre  at  present,  and,  as 
you  observe,  a  masterpiece.  The  Drouais  por- 
trait has  not  fallen  in  my  way.  There  's  an 
engraving  of  it,  I  believe,  in  one  of  Paul  de 
Saint-Victor's  interesting  volumes.  Ah,  yes, 
I  forgot  ;  he  is  not  of  your  world.  But  how 
is  it,  Chevalier,  that  with  your  remarkable  con- 
versational power  "  — 

"  Monsieur  is  too  flattering." 

"  How  is  it  that  you  have  not  informed  your- 
self concerning  the  progress  of  human  events, 
and  especially  of  the  political,  literary,  and  so- 
cial changes  that  have  taken  place  in  France  ? 
Surely  you  have  had  opportunities  rarely  of- 
fered, I  imagine,  to  one  in  your  position.  Now, 
at  the  bookshop  where  I  —  where  I  made  your 
acquaintance,  you  might  have  interrogated 
many  intelligent  persons." 

"  Ah,  that  miserable  boutique  !  and  that  su- 
perannuated vender  of  revolutionary  pamphlets 
—  an  imbecile  of  imbeciles,  monsieur!  How 
could  I  have  talked  with  him  and  his  fellow- 
y  even  if  it  had  been  possible !  But  it 


264    THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER 

was  not  possible.  Monsieur  is  the  only  person 
to  whom  I  have  ever  been  able  to  communicate 
myself.  A  barrier  of  dense  materialism  has 
until  now  excluded  me  from  such  intercourse 
as  monsieur  suggests.  I  make  my  compliments 
to  monsieur  ;  he  is  tout  a  fait  spirituel!" 

"  May  I  inquire,  Chevalier,"  I  said,  after  a 
moment  of  meditation,  "if  the  mind,  the  vital 
spark,  of  all  persons  who  pass  through  a  cer- 
tain inevitable  experience  takes  final  lodgment 
in  the  cranium  ?  I  begin  then  to  comprehend 
why  that  part  of  the  anatomy  of  man  has  been 
rendered  almost  indestructible." 

"  I  am  grieved  that  I  cannot  dispel  the  dark- 
ness enveloping  monsieur's  problem.  Perhaps 
this  disposition  of  the  vital  spark,  as  monsieur 
calls  it,  occurs  only  in  the  case  of  those  persons 
who  have  made  their  exit  under  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances. I  cannot  say.  Chance  has  doubt- 
less brought  me  in  contact  with  several  persons 
of  that  class,  but  no  sign  of  recognition  has 
passed  between  us.  As  I  understand  it,  mon- 
sieur, death  is  a  transition  state,  like  life  itself, 
and  leaves  the  mystery  still  unsolved.  Outside 
of  my  own  individual  consciousness  everything 
has  been  nearly  a  blank." 

"  Then,  possibly,  you  don't  know  where  you 
are  at  present  ? " 

"  I  conjecture;  I  am  far  from  positive,  but 


THE    CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER    265 

I  think  I  am  in  the  land  of  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin." 

"  Well,  yes ;  but  I  should  say  the  late  Ben- 
jamin Franklin,  if  I  were  you.  It  is  many 
years  since  he  was  an  active  factor  in  our  pub- 
lic affairs." 

"  I  was  not  aware  —  my  almost  absolute  se- 
clusion —  monsieur  understands." 

"  In  your  retirement,  Chevalier,  you  have 
missed  much.  Vast  organic  upheavals  have 
occurred  meanwhile;  things  that  seemed  to 
reach  down  to  the  bed-rock  of  permanence 
have  been  torn  up  by  the  roots.  The  impossi- 
ble has  become  the  commonplace.  The  whole 
surface  of  the  earth  has  undergone  a  change, 
and  nowhere  have  the  changes  been  more  radi- 
cal and  marvellous  than  in  your  own  beloved 
France.  Would  you  not  like  me  briefly  to  indi- 
cate a  few  of  them  ? " 

"If  monsieur  will  be  so  obliging." 

"In  the  first  place,  you  should  know  that 
Danton,  Desmoulins,  Robespierre,  and  the  rest, 
each  in  his  turn,  fell  into  the  hands  of  your  old 
friend  M.  Sanson." 

"  A  la  bonne  heure  !  I  knew  it  would  come 
to  that.  When  France  wanted  to  regenerate 
society  she  ought  to  have  begun  with  the  sans 
culottes" 

"  The  republic  shortly  gave  way  to  a  mon- 


266    THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER 

archy.  A  great  soldier  sat  upon  the  throne,  a 
new  Caesar,  who  flung  down  his  gauntlet  to  the 
whole  world,  and  well-nigh  conquered  it ;  but 
he  too  fell  from  his  lofty  height,  suddenly,  like 
Lucifer,  never  to  rise  again." 

"  And  how  did  men  call  him  ? " 

"  Napoleon  Bonaparte." 

"  Bonaparte  ?  Bonaparte  ?  —  it  is  not  a 
French  name,  monsieur." 

"  After  him  the  Bourbon  reigned  ;  then  there 
was  a  republic ;  and  then  another  Caesar  came 
—  an  imitation  Cassar  —  who  let  a  German 
king  conquer  France,  and  bivouac  his  Uhlans 
under  the  lime-trees  in  the  Champs  Elys^es." 

"  A  German  with  his  foot  upon  the  neck  of 
France  !  Ah,  monsieur,  was  I  not  happy  to 
escape  the  knowledge  of  all  these  things  ?  Mon 
Dieu  !  but  he  was  a  prophet,  that  Louis  XV., 
with  his  (Aprh  nous  le  deluge  ! '  Tell  me  no 
more !  I  am  well  content  to  wait  in  ignorance." 

"  To  wait  for  what,  Chevalier  ? " 

"  For  the  end  of  the  world,  I  suppose. 
Really,  monsieur  puts  the  most  perplexing 
questions  —  like  a.juge  d?  instruction" 

I  may  here  remark  that  throughout  our  con- 
versation the  immobility  of  the  face  of  the 
Chevalier  de  Resseguier,  taken  in  connection 
with  what  he  was  saying,  had  a  grotesque  ef- 
fect. His  moods  were  many,  but  his  expres- 


THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER    267 

sion  was  one.  Whether  he  spoke  sadly,  or 
playfully,  or  vehemently,  there  was  that  stolid, 
stony  outline,  gazing  into  vacancy  like  the  face 
of  a  sphinx. 

"  But,  Chevalier,"  I  said,  "  it  must  be  a  mo- 
notonous business,  this  waiting." 

"  Yes,  and  no,  monsieur.  I  am  at  least  spared 
the  tumult  and  struggle  of  earthly  existence ; 
for  what  is  the  life  of  man  but  une  milice  continr 
uelle  ?  Here  I  am  safe  from  debts  and  the  want 
of  louis  d'or  to  pay  them  ;  safe  from  false  love, 
false  friendship,  and  all  hypocrisy.  I  am  neither 
hot  nor  cold,  neither  hungry  nor  thirsty.  Par- 
bleu  !  monsieur,  I  might  be  much  worse  off." 

"  Yet  at  intervals  your  solitude  must  weigh 
upon  you." 

"  Then  I  take  a  little  nap  of  four  or  five 
years  —  four  or  five  years  according  to  mon- 
sieur's computation.  The  Gregorian  calendar 
does  not  exist  for  me." 

"  Perhaps  you  feel  like  taking  a  little  nap 
now,"  I  suggested,  with  a  sudden  desire  to  be 
rid  of  him. 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  the  chevalier  briskly. 
"  I  never  felt  less  like  it." 

"  I  am  sorry,  for  it  is  really  an  embarrassing 
question,  when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  what  I 
am  to  do  with  you." 

"Monsieur  is   too   kind   to   trouble   himself 


268    THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER 

with  thinking  about  it.  Why  do  anything  ? 
How  charming  it  all  has  been,  except  that 
Madame  for  an  instant  mistook  me  for  a  melon ! 
We  have  our  little  vanities,  nous  autres  !  Here 
I  find  myself  au  mieux.  I  am  a  man  of  letters, 
a  poet  whose  works  have  been  crowned  by  the 
Bastille  if  not  by  the  Acade"mie.  These  vol- 
umes in  polished  calf  and  fragrant  crushed 
levant  make  a  congenial  atmosphere,  riest-ce 
pas  ?  Formerly  my  Greek  and  Latin  were  not 
of  the  best ;  but  now,  naturally,  I  speak  both 
with  fluency,  for  they  are  dead  languages,  as 
monsieur  is  aware.  My  English — monsieur 
can  judge.  I  acquired  it  in  London  during  a 
year  or  two  when  my  presence  in  Paris  was  not 
absolutely  indispensable.  So  why  not  let  me 
remain  where  I  am  ?  Un  bel  esprit  is  never  de 
trop.  Monsieur  need  never  more  be  in  want 
of  a  pleasant  companion.  .  I  will  converse  with 
him,  I  will  dissipate  his  ennui.  I  am  no  longer 
of  those  who  disappear  abruptly.  I  will  stay 
with  monsieur  forever." 

This  monstrous  proposition  struck  me  cold. 

"  No,  Chevalier,"  I  said,  with  as  much  calm- 
ness as  I  could  command  ;  "  such  an  arrange- 
ment would  not  suit  me  in  any  particular.  You 
have  not  read  the  Memoires  of  Madame  du 
Barry,  and  I  have.  Our  views  of  life  are  an- 
tagonistic. The  association  you  propose  is 
wholly  impracticable." 


THE   CHEVALIER   DE    RESSEGUIER     269 

"I  am  here  by  monsieur's  own  invitation, 
am  I  not  ?  Did  I  thrust  myself  upon  him  ? 
No.  Did  I  even  seek  his  acquaintance  ?  No. 
It  was  monsieur  who  made  all  the  advances. 
There  were  three  of  us,  and  he  selected  me.  I 
am  deeply  sensible  of  the  honor.  I  would  give 
expression  to  that  sensibility.  I  would,  if  mon- 
sieur were  disposed,  render  him  important  liter- 
ary services.  For  example,  I  could  furnish  him 
with  many  curious  particulars  touching  the 
CEil-de-Boeuf,  together  with  some  startling  facts 
which  establish  beyond  doubt  the  identity  of 
the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask." 

"  Such  information,  unfortunately,  would  be 
of  no  use  to  me." 

"  Of  no  use  ?     Monsieur  astonishes  me  !  " 

"  I  could  not  avail  myself  of  statements  made 
by  the  Chevalier  de  Resseguier." 

"  Monsieur  means  "  — 

"Precisely  what  I  say." 

"But  what  monsieur  says  is  not  precisely 
clear.  His  words  are  capable  of  being  con- 
strued as  insulting.  Under  different  circum- 
stances, I  should  send  two  of  my  friends  to 
demand  of  monsieur  the  satisfaction  which  one 
galant  homme  never  refuses  another." 

"  And  you  would  get  it !  "  I  returned  warmly. 

"  I  could  wish  that  I  had  monsieur  for  one 
little  quarter  of  an  hour  in  some  shady  avenue 


27o    THE   CHEVALIER   DE   RESSEGUIER 

at  Versailles,  or  on  the  Terrasse  des  Feuillants 
in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries." 

"  I  wish  you  had,  and  then  you  'd  wish  you 
hadn't,  for  I  should  give  you  a  sound  caning 
to  add  to  your  stock  of  permanent  reminis- 
cences." 

"  Monsieur  forgets  himself,"  said  the  cheva- 
lier, and  the  chevalier  was  quite  right.  "  The 
rapier  and  the  pistol  are  —  or  were  —  my  wea- 
pons. Fortunately  for  monsieur  I  am  obliged 
to  say  were.  Monsieur  can  be  impertinent  with 
impunity." 

"  I  've  a  great  mind  to  knock  your  head 
off !  "  I  cried,  again  in  the  wrong. 

"  A  work  of  supererogation.  I  beg  leave  to 
call  monsieur's  unintelligent  attention  to  the 
fact  that  my  head  is  already  off." 

"It's  a  pity,"  I  said,  "that  persons  of  your 
stripe  cannot  be  guillotined  two  or  three  times. 
However,  I  can  throw  you  out  of  the  window." 

"  Throw  me  out  of  the  window !  "  cried  the 
Chevalier  de  Resseguier  in  a  rage. 

At  that  instant  the  door  of  the  library  was 
opened  hurriedly,  and  a  draught  of  wind,  sweep- 
ing through  the  apartment,  tumbled  the  inse- 
curely placed  skull  from  its  perch. 

"Do  you  know  how  late  it  is,  dear?"  said 
my  wife,  standing  on  the  threshold,  with  a  lace 
shawl  drawn  about  her  shoulders  and  her  bare 


THE  CHEVALIER  DE   RESSEGUIER    271 

feet  thrust  into  a  pair  of  Turkish  slippers.  "  It 
is  half  past  two.  I  verily  believe  you  must 
have  fallen  asleep  over  your  work !  " 

I  stared  for  a  moment  at  my  wife,  and  made 
no  reply.  Then  I  picked  up  the  Chevalier  de 
Resseguier,  who  had  sustained  a  double  frac- 
ture of  the  jaw,  and  carefully  replaced  him, 
fragments  and  all,  on  the  little  fafence  bracket 
over  the  window. 


HER   DYING  WORDS 


IT  was  the  good  ship  Agamenticus,  five  days 
out  from  New  York,  and  bound  for  Liverpool 
There  was  never  a  ship  in  a  more  pitiful  plight. 

On  the  Tuesday  morning  when  she  left 
Sandy  Hook  behind  her,  the  sea  had  been 
nearly  as  smooth  as  an  inland  pond,  and  the 
sky  one  unbroken  blue.  What  wind  there  was 
came  in  fitful  puffs,  and  the  captain  began  to 
be  afraid  that  it  would  leave  them  altogether. 
Toward  sunset,  however,  the  breeze  freshened 
smartly,  and  the  vessel "  made  a  phenomenal 
run.  On  the  following  noon  there  was  a  falling 
barometer,  the  weather  thickened,  the  sun  went 
down  in  a  purple  blur,  and  by  midnight  the 
wind  was  blowing  a  gale.  The  next  day  the 
Agamenticus  found  herself  rolling  and  plun- 
ging in  the  midst  of  one  of  those  summer  tem- 
pests which  frequently  can  give  points  to  their 
wintry  accomplices.  Captain  Saltus,  who  had 
sailed  the  ocean  for  forty  years,  man  and  boy, 
had  never  experienced  anything  like  that  Thurs- 


HER   DYING  WORDS  273 

day  night,  unless  it  was  that  Friday  night,  when 
nothing  but  a  series  of  miracles  saved  the  ship 
from  foundering. 

On  Saturday  morning  the  storm  was  over. 
The  sun  was  breaking  gorgeously  through  a 
narrow  bank  of  fog  that  stretched  from  east  to 
west,  and  the  sea  was  calming  itself,  sullenly 
and  reluctantly,  with  occasional  moans  and 
spasms.  The  storm  was  over,  but  it  had  given 
the  Agamenticus  her  death-blow.  The  drip- 
ping decks  were  cluttered  with  rope-ends,  split 
blocks,  broken  stanchions,  and  pine  splinters  — 
the  debris  of  the  foremast,  of  which  only  some 
ten  or  twenty  feet  remained.  Such  canvas  as 
had  not  been  securely  furled  hung  in  shreds 
from  the  main  and  mizzen  yards,  and  at  every 
lurch  of  the  ship  the  flying  cordage  aloft  lashed 
the  masts.  Two  life-boats,  with  the  bottoms 
stove  in,  swung  loosely  from  the  davits  on  the 
port  side ;  the  starboard  boats  were  gone.  The 
same  sea  that  had  wrenched  them  from  their 
fastenings  had  also  swept  away  John  Sharon, 
the  first  mate.  But  the  climax  of  all  these  dis- 
asters was  a  dreadful  leak,  the  exact  location 
of  which  was  hidden  by  the  cargo. 

Such  was  the  plight  of  the  good  ship  Aga- 
menticus at  sunrise,  on  that  fifth  day  out  from 
New  York. 

The   Agamenticus  was   a   merchantman   of 


274  HER  DYING  WORDS 

about  twelve  hundred  tons,  and  had  excellent 
cabin  accommodations,  though  she  had  been  de- 
signed especially  for  freight.  On  this  voyage, 
however,  there  happened  to  be  five  passengers 
—  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Livingston  Tredick,  Ellen 
Louise,  their  daughter,  Dr.  Newton  Downs, 
and  Miss  Tredick' s  maid.  The  vessel  belonged 
to  a  line  running  between  Boston  and  New  Or- 
leans, and  on  the  present  occasion  was  making 
a  chance  trip  to  Liverpool. 

Mr.  Tredick  was  a  wealthy  retired  merchant 
who  was  intending  to  pass  the  summer  at  the 
German  baths  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  and 
had  followed  the  advice  of  his  family  physi- 
cian in  selecting  a  sailing  vessel  instead  of  a 
steamer,  in  order  that  Mrs.  Tredick,  somewhat 
of  an  invalid,  might  get  the  benefit  of  a  pro- 
tracted sea  voyage.  Louise,  the  daughter,  was 
a  very  beautiful  girl  of  nineteen  or  twenty ; 
and  Dr.  Downs  was  a  young  physician  of  great 
promise  and  few  patients,  who  had  willingly 
consented  to  be  Mr.  Tredick' s  guest  as  far  as 
Liverpool.  The  air  in  which  Miss  Louise 
Tredick  moved  had  been  for  two  years  or  more 
the  only  air  that  this  young  scientist  could  breath 
without  difficulty. 

The  relations  existing  between  these  two 
persons  were  of  a  rather  unusual  nature,  and 
require  a  word  or  so  of  explanation. 


HER  DYING  WORDS  275 

At  the  time  of  his  father's  death,  which  oc- 
curred in  1879,  Newton  Downs  was  in  his 
senior  year  at  Bowdoin.  The  father  had  been 
a  lawyer  with  an  extensive  practice  and  extrava- 
gant tastes,  and  his  large  annual  income,  easily 
acquired,  had  always  been  as  easily  disposed  of. 
He  was  still  in  his  prime,  and  was  meditating 
future  economies  for  the  sake  of  his  boy,  when 
death  placed  an  injunction  on  those  plans. 
Young  Downs  was  left  with  little  more  than 
sufficient  means  to  enable  him  to  finish  his  col- 
lege course  and  pursue  his  medical  studies  for 
a  year  or  two  abroad.  He  then  established 
himself  professionally  in  New  York ;  that  is 
to  say,  he  took  a  modest  suite  of  rooms  on  a 
ground  floor  in  West  Eighteenth  Street,  and 
ornamented  the  right-hand  side  of  the  doorway 
with  an  engraved  brass  plate 


Jftetottm  £)otoiui, 
Aurist. 


The  small,  semi-detached  boy  whose  duty  it  was 
to  keep  that  brass  tablet  bright  absorbed  the 
whole  of  the  doctor's  fees  for  the  first  six 
months. 

It  was  in  the  course  of  this  tentative  first 
half  year  that  Dr.  Downs  made  the  acquaint' 


276  HER   DYING   WORDS 

ance  of  the  Tredick  family,  and  had  definitely 
surrendered  himself  to  the  charm  of  Miss  Tre- 
dick, before  he  discovered  the  fact  —  to  him  the 
fatal  fact  —  that  she  was  not  only  the  daughter 
of  a  very  wealthy  father,  but  was  very  wealthy 
in  her  own  right.  In  the  eyes  of  most  men 
these  offences  would  not  have  seemed  without 
mitigating  circumstances ;  but  to  Dr.  Downs, 
with  his  peculiar  point  of  view,  they  were  an 
insurmountable  barrier.  A  young  and  impov- 
erished gentleman,  who  had  made  a  specialty  of 
the  human  ear  and  could  not  get  any  hearing 
out  of  the  public,  was  scarcely  a  brilliant  parti 
for  Miss  Ellen  Louise  Tredick.  His  pride  and 
his  poverty,  combined,  closed  that  gate  on  Dr. 
Downs.  If  he  could  have  been  poor  and  not 
proud,  perhaps  it  would  have  greatly  simplified 
the  situation. 

"  Since  fate  has  set  me  penniless  on  the 
threshold  of  life,"  reflected  the  doctor,  one 
evening  shortly  after  his  financial  discovery, 
"  why  did  not  fate  make  a  pauper  of  Miss  Tre- 
dick ?  Then  I  could  have  asked  her  to  be  my 
wife,  and  faced  the  world  dauntlessly,  like  thou- 
sands of  others  who  have  found  love  a  sufficient 
capital  to  start  housekeeping  on.  Miss  Tre- 
dick's  grandfather  behaved  like  an  idiot,  to  go 
and  leave  her  such  a  preposterous  fortune  ;  and 
her  own  father  is  not  behaving  himself  much 


HER   DYING  WORDS  277 

better.  I  wish  the  pair  of  them  could  lose 
their  money.  If  Tredick  only  were  a  Wall 
Street  magnate,  there  would  be  some  chance 
of  their  going  to  pieces  some  fine  day  —  then 
I  might  pick  up  one  of  the  pieces ! " 

Unless  he  should  become  abruptly  rich,  or 
Mr.  Tredick  and  his  daughter  abruptly  poor, 
there  really  seemed  no  way  out  of  it  for  the 
young  doctor.  As  the  months  went  by,  nei- 
ther of  those  things  appeared  likely  to  happen. 
So  Newton  Downs  kept  his  love  to  himself,  and 
looked  with  despairing  eyes  upon  Miss  Tredick 
as  a  glittering  impossibility.  It  was  the  desire 
of  the  moth  for  the  star,  the  longing  of  the 
dime  to  be  a  dollar. 

Dr.  Downs's  unhappiness  did  not  terminate 
here.  There  is  no  man  at  once  so  unselfish 
and  selfish  as  a  man  in  love.  In  this  instance 
the  moth,  without  the  dimmest  perception  of 
its  own  ungenerosity,  wanted  the  star  to  be 
a  little  unhappy  also.  There  was  no  sacrifice, 
excepting  that  of  his  pride,  which  Dr.  Downs 
would  not  have  made  for  Miss  Tredick ;  yet  he 
found  it  very  hard  to  have  a  hopeless  passion 
all  to  himself,  and  that,  clearly,  was  what  he 
was  having.  He  had  no  illusions  concerning 
Miss  Tredick's  attitude  toward  him.  It  was 
one  of  intimate  indiff erence.  A  girl  does  not 
treat  a  possible  lover  with  unvarying  simplicity 


278  HER  DYING  WORDS 

and  directness.  In  all  its  phases  love  is  com- 
plex ;  friendship  is  not.  With  other  men  Miss 
Tredick  coquetted,  or  almost  coquetted ;  but 
with  him  she  never  dropped  that  air  of  mere 
camaraderie  which  said  as  distinctly  as  such 
a  disagreeable  thing  ought  ever  to  be  said,  "  Of 
course,  between  us  that  is  out  of  the  question. 
You  cannot  offer  me  the  kind  of  home  you 
would  take  me  from,  and  I  know  you  slightly, 
Dr.  Downs,  if  you  would  be  willing  to  accept 
rich  surroundings  at  any  woman's  hand.  I  like 
you  very  much  —  in  a  way  ;  and  papa  likes  you 
very  well,  too.  He  sees  that  you  are  not  at 
all  sentimental."  Times  without  number  had 
Downs  translated  Miss  Tredick's  manner  into 
these  or  similar  phrases.  He  came  at  last  to 
find  a  morbid  satisfaction  in  such  literary 
exercises. 

Now,  Newton  Downs  had  been  undergoing 
this  experience  for  upward  of  two  years,  when 
Mr.  Tredick,  who  appeared  indeed  to  regard 
him  as  an  exemplary  and  harmless  young  man, 
invited  the  doctor  to  take  that  trip  to  Liver- 
pool on  board  the  Agamenticus,  and  to  spend 
a  week  in  London  or  Paris,  if  he  were  so  in- 
clined, while  the  ship  was  getting  ready  for  the 
return  voyage. 

The  proposition  nearly  blinded  Dr.  Downs 
with  its  brilliancy.  The  cabin  had  been  en- 


HER  DYING  WORDS  279 

gaged  by  Mr.  Tredick,  and  there  were  to  be  no 
other  passengers.  There  were  four  staterooms 
opening  upon  the  saloon  —  the  one  occupied  by 
the  captain  was  to  be  given  up  to  Dr.  Downs. 
The  tenor  of  Mr.  Tredick's  invitation  left  the 
young  man  no  scruples  about  accepting  it.  Mr. 
Tredick  had  said :  "  On  account  of  my  wife  and 
daughter,  I  should  n't  think  of  crossing  without 
a  medical  man  on  board.  I  know  how  valuable 
a  professional  man's  time  is.  The  favor  will  be 
wholly  on  your  side  if  I  can  persuade  you  to  go 
with  us."  So  Dr.  Downs  agreed  to  go.  To 
have  Miss  Tredick  all  to  himself,  as  it  were, 
for  eighteen  or  twenty  days  —  perhaps  twenty- 
five —  was  an  incredible  stroke  of  fortune. 
How  it  would  grieve  Mr.  Cornelius  Van  Coot, 
the  opulent  stockbroker,  and  that  young  De- 
lancy  Duane,  who  had  caused  Newton  Downs 
many  an  uneasy  moment ! 

"  If  I  am  not  to  have  earthly  happiness  with 
her,"  mused  Dr.  Downs,  on  his  walk  home  that 
night  from  Madison  Avenue,  "  I  am  to  have  at 
least  some  watery  happiness !  The  dull  season 
is  coming  on" — he  smiled  sarcastically  as  he 
thought  of  that  — "  and  all  my  patients  will 
have  retired  to  their  country-seats.  Business 
will  not  suffer,  and  I  shall  escape  July  and  Au- 
gust in  town."  Then  he  began  making  mental 
vignettes  of  Miss  Tredick  in  a  blue  flannel 


280  HER   DYING   WORDS 

yachting  suit,  and  gave  her  two  small  anchors, 
worked  in  gold  braid,  for  the  standing  collar, 
and  chevrons  of  the  same  for  the  left  coat- 
sleeve.  "  How  glorious  it  will  be  to  promenade 
the  deck  in  the  moonlight  after  the  old  folks 
have  turned  in !  I  hope  that  they  will  be 
dreadfully  ill,  and  that  we  shall  keep  dreadfully 
well.  The  moment  we  pass  Sandy  Hook  Light, 
overboard  goes  Miss  Tredick's  maid!  .  .  . 
What  pleasure  it  will  be  to  fetch  her  wraps,  and 
black  Hamburg  grapes,  and  footstools,  and  iced 
lemonades  —  to  sit  with  her  under  an  awning, 
clear  aft,  with  magazines  and  illustrated  papers  " 
—  he  instantly  resolved  to  buy  out  Brentano  — 
"to  lean  against  the  taffrail,  and  watch  the 
long  emerald  sweep  of  the  waves,  and  the 
sweep  of  Miss  Tredick's  eyelashes !  " 

It  is  to  be  remarked  of  Miss  Tredick's  eye- 
lashes, that  they  were  very  long  and  very  dark, 
and  drooped  upon  a  most  healthful  tint  of 
cheek  —  neither  too  rosy  nor  too  pallid  —  for 
she  belonged  to  that  later  type  of  American 
girl  who  rides  horseback  and  is  not  afraid  of 
a  five-mile  walk  through  the  woods  and  fields. 
There  were  great  dignity,  and  delicacy,  and 
strength  in  her  tall  figure  ;  an  innocent  fearless- 
ness in  her  clear,  hazel  eyes,  and,  close  to,  Miss 
Tredick's  eyelashes  were  worth  looking  at.  It 
was  young  Delancy  Duane  who  said  that  it 


HER   DYING   WORDS  281 

took  her  half  an  hour  every  morning  to  disen- 
tangle them. 

Dr.  Downs  sat  up  late  that  night  at  the  open 
window  of  his  office — it  was  in  the  middle  of 
June — reflecting  on  the  endless  pleasant  pos- 
sibilities of  the  sea  voyage.  Would  he  go  no 
further  than  Liverpool  ?  or  would  he  run  up 
to  London,  and  then  over  to  Paris  ?  In  other 
days  he  had  been  very  happy  in  Paris,  in  the 
old  Latin  Quarter.  He  sat  there  in  the  silent 
room,  with  no  other  light  than  his  dreams. 

They  were  not  destined  to  be  realized.  That 
first  day  at  sea  promised  everything ;  then  came 
the  rough  weather,  and  then  the  terrible  storm, 
which  lasted  thirty-six  hours  or  more,  and  all 
but  wrenched  the  Agamenticus  asunder,  leav- 
ing her  on  the  fifth  morning,  as  has  been  de- 
scribed, a  helpless  wreck  in  the  middle  of  the 
Atlantic. 

During  the  height  of  the  tempest  the  passen- 
gers were  imprisoned  in  the  cabin,  for  it  had 
been  necessary  to  batten  down  the  hatches. 
It  was  so  dark  below  that  the  lamp  suspended 
over  the  cabin  table  was  kept  constantly  burn- 
ing. The  heavy  seas  on  Thursday  had  put  out 
the  fire  in  the  galley,  which  was  afterward  de- 
molished, and  the  cook  had  retreated  to  some 
spot  between  decks,  whence  he  managed  to 
serve  hot  coffee  and  sandwiches  to  the  saloon 


282  HER   DYING  WORDS 

at  meal-times.  Even  this  became  nearly  im- 
practicable after  Friday  noon. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tredick  were  permanently  con- 
fined to  their  stateroom,  and  so  desperately  ill 
as  to  be  for  the  most  part  unconscious  of  what 
was  taking  place.  Miss  Tredick's  maid,  who 
had  been  brought  along  chiefly  to  look  after 
Mrs.  Tredick,  was  in  a  like  condition.  Dr. 
Downs  and  Miss  Tredick  were  fair  sailors  in 
ordinary  weather ;  it  was  the  strain  on  their 
nerves  that  now  kept  them  "  dreadfully  well." 

Neither  thought  of  closing  an  eye  that  fear- 
ful Friday  night.  They  passed  the  whole  night 
in  the  saloon,  seated  opposite  each  other,  with 
the  narrow  stationary  table,  which  served  as 
a  support,  between  them.  They  exchanged 
scarcely  a  word  as  they  sat  listening  to  the 
thud  of  the  tremendous  waves  that  broke  over 
the  vessel.  Indeed,  most  of  the  time  speech 
would  have  been  inaudible  amid  the  roar  of  the 
wind,  the  shuffling  tramp  of  the  sailors  on  the 
deck,  the  creak  of  the  strained  timbers,  and 
the  hundred  mysterious,  half  articulate  cries 
that  are  wrung  from  the  agony  of  a  ship  in  a 
storm  at  sea. 

Miss  Tredick  was  very  quiet  and  serious,  but 
apparently  not  terrified.  If  an  expression  of 
anxiety  now  and  then  came  into  her  face,  it 
was  when  she  glanced  toward  the  stateroom 


HER   DYING  WORDS  283 

where  her  mother  and  father  were.  The  door 
stood  open,  and  Miss  Tredick,  by  turning 
slightly  in  the  chair,  could  see  them  in  their 
berths.  They  were  lying  in  a  kind  of  lethargic 
sleep.  Save  for  a  touch  of  unwonted  paleness, 
and  certain  traces  of  weariness  about  the  eyes, 
Miss  Tredick  looked  as  she  might  have  looked 
sitting,  in  some  very  serious  mood,  in  her  own 
room  at  home.  This  was  courage  pure  and 
simple ;  for  the  girl  was  imaginative  in  a  high 
degree,  and  it  is  the  imagination  that  conspires 
to  undermine  one's  firmness  in  critical  moments. 
An  unimaginative  person's  indifference  to  dan- 
ger is  not  courage,  it  is  obtuseness.  Miss  Tre- 
dick had  the  fullest  realization  of  the  peril  they 
were  in. 

There  was  in  her  countenance  this  night  a 
kind  of  spiritual  beauty  that  seemed  new  to  the 
young  man.  "  I  don't  think  she  ever  looked 
so  much  like  herself  before ! "  was  Newton 
Downs's  inward  comment  once,  as  he  met  her 
gaze  across  the  narrow  table.  He  could  hardly 
keep  his  eyes  away  from  her. 

Dr.  Downs's  self-possession  was  not  so  abso- 
lute as  Miss  Tredick' s.  He  was  a  brave  man, 
as  she  was  a  brave  girl,  and  the  fears  which 
unnerved  him  at  intervals  were  not  on  his  own 
account.  To  him  his  life  weighed  light  in  the 
balance  against  hers.  That  all  this  buoyant 


284  HER   DYING  WORDS 

womanhood  and  rare  loveliness  should  be  even 
remotely  menaced  with  a  cruel  death  was  an 
intolerable  thought.  And  the  menace  was 
not  remote.  There  were  moments  when  he 
wavered  in  his  faith  in  the  Divine  goodness. 
There  were  moments,  too,  when  he  had  it  on 
his  lips  to  tell  Miss  Tredick  everything  that 
had  been  in  his  mind  those  last  two  years. 
But  here  the  old  pride  whispered  to  him. 
Later  on,  would  it  not  seem  as  if  he  had  taken 
advantage  of  a  fortuitous  situation  to  make 
avowals  to  which  she  could  not  well  avoid 
listening  ? 

It  was  some  time  near  midnight  that  the 
foremast  fell  with  a  great  crash.  Miss  Tredick 
involuntarily  stretched  out  one  of  her  hands  to 
Downs. 

"What  was  that?" 

"A  heavy  spar,  or  a  .topmast,  must  have 
fallen,"  suggested  Downs. 

In  the  lull  that  followed  they  could  hear 
what  sounded  like  axe-strokes  dealt  in  quick 
succession.  The  ship  had  heeled  over  fright- 
fully to  port.  She  held  that  position  for  per- 
haps twenty  minutes,  then  slowly  righted. 

"  It  was  one  of  the  masts,"  Downs  observed ; 
"they  have  cut  it  adrift."  And  Miss  Tredick 
softly  withdrew  her  hand. 

After  this  the  lulls  grew  more  frequent  and 


HER  DYING  WORDS  285 

prolonged,  and  toward  daybreak  the  storm 
began  rapidly  to  abate.  There  was  very  much 
less  motion,  and  the  noises  overhead  had  sub- 
sided. The  ship's  bell,  which  had  made  a 
muffled,  intermittent  clamor  throughout  the 
night,  had  now  given  over  its  tolling.  This 
comparative  stillness,  succeeding  the  tumult, 
seemed  to  have  a  poignant  quality  in  it.  It  was 
as  H  the  whole  world  had  suddenly  stopped, 
like  a  clock  The  vessel  appeared  to  be  mak- 
ing but  slight  headway.  Presently  the  dawn 
whitened  the  stern  ports  and  the  little  disks  of 
opaque  glass  let  into  the  deck,  and  Dr.  Downs 
heard  the  men  at  work  on  the  hatches.  The 
long  vigil  was  ended. 

"  Now  go  and  lie  down  for  an  hour  or  so," 
he  said,  rising  from  the  chair  with  his  limbs 
cramped.  "  I  '11  take  a  glance  at  the  state  of 
things  above.  I  shall  never  forget  this  night, 
Miss  Tredick." 

"  Nor  I,"  she  answered ;  and  she  looked  so 
lovely  sitting  there  in  the  twilight  of  the  cabin, 
with  an  illuminated  oval  port  behind  her  head 
forming  a  halo,  that  the  young  doctor  faltered 
a  second  or  two  on  the  threshold. 

At  the  top  of  the  companion-way  he  met 
Captain  Saltus  on  the  point  of  descending. 
He  was  still  in  his  oilskin  reefer  and  overalls, 
and  presented  the  appearance  of  a  diver  who 


286  HER  DYING  WORDS 

had  just  been  brought  exhausted  to  the  sur- 
face. 

"  Good-morning,  Captain ! "  cried  Dr.  Downs 
gayly,  exhilarated  by  a  full  breath  of  the  fresh 
sea  air  and  a  glimpse  of  the  half-risen  sun 
ploughing  up  opals  and  rubies  in  a  low  bank  of 
fog  stretching  to  the  eastward.  "We  have 
weathered  it,  after  all,  but  by  Jove" —  Some- 
thing in  the  firm-set  lines  of  the  captain's 
mouth  caused  the  doctor  to  leave  his  sentence 
unfinished.  At  the  same  instant  a  curious 
wailing  sound  reached  his  ear  from  the  forward 
part  of  the  ship.  "  What  has  happened  ?  "  he 
asked  in  a  lower  voice ;  for  they  were  close  to 
the  companion-way,  and  the  door  at  the  foot  of 
the  stair  stood  open. 

"I  was  just  coming  to  tell  you,"  replied  the 
captain  gravely,  "  you  and  Mr.  Tredick." 
"  Is  it  anything  serious  ?  " 
"Very  serious,  as  serious  as  can  be." 
"  They  must  n't  hear  us  below.     Come  over 
by  the  rail.     What  is  the  matter  —  has  any- 
body been  hurt  ?  " 

"  We  've  all  been  hurt,  Dr.  Downs,"  returned 
the  captain,  drawing  the  back  of  one  hand 
across  his  wet  brows,  "  every  soul  of  us ! 
There 's  an  ugly  leak  somewhere  below  the 
water-line,  we  don't  know  where,  and  ain't 
likely  to  know,  though  the  men  are  tearing  up 


HER  DYING  WORDS  287 

the  cargo  trying  to  find  out.  Perhaps  half  a 
dozen  seams  have  started,  perhaps  a  plank. 
The  thing  widens.  The  ship  is  filling  hand 
over  hand,  and  the  pumps  dorit  work." 

"  But  surely  the  leak  will  be  found !  " 

"Dr.  Downs,"  said  the  captain,  "the  old 
Agamenticus  has  made  her  last  cruise." 

He  said  this  very  simply.  He  had  faced 
death  on  almost  every  known  sea,  and  from  his 
boyhood  had  looked  upon  the  ocean  as  his 
burial  place.  There  he  was  to  lie  at  last,  with 
his  ship,  or  in  a  shotted  hammock,  as  the  case 
might  be.  Such  end  had  been  his  father's 
and  his  grandfather's  before  him,  for  he  had 
come  of  a  breed  of  sea  kings. 

"Then  we  shall  have  to  take  to  the  life- 
boats !  "  cried  Downs,  breaking  from  the  stupor 
into  which  the  captain's  announcement  had 
plunged  him. 

"  Two  of  them  were  blown  out  of  the  lash- 
ings last  night ;  the  other  two  are  over  yonder." 

Dr.  Downs' s  glance  followed  the  pointing  of 
the  captain's  finger.  Then  the  young  man's 
chin  sank  on  his  breast.  "  At  least  we  shall 
die  together!  "  he  said  softly  to  himself. 

"I  don't  know  where  we  are,"  remarked  the 
captain,  casting  his  eyes  over  the  lonely  ex- 
panse of  sea.  "  I  've  not  been  able  to  take  an 
observation  since  Wednesday  noon.  It 's  pretty 


288  HER   DYING    WORDS 

certain  that  we  've  been  driven  out  of  our 
course,  but  how  far  is  guesswork.  We  're  not 
in  the  track  of  vessels,  anyhow.  I  counted  on 
sighting  a  sail  at  daybreak  It  was  our  only 
hope,  but  it  was  n't  to  be.  That 's  a  nasty  bit 
of  breeze  off  there  to  the  east'ard,"  he  added 
irrelevantly,  following  his  habit  of  noting  such 
detail.  Then  he  recollected  the  business  that 
had  brought  him  to  the  cabin.  "  Some  of  the 
men  for'ard  are  rigging  up  a  raft ;  I  don't  my- 
self set  any  great  value  on  rafts,  as  a  general 
thing,  but  I  wish  you  'd  break  the  matter,  kind 
of  incidentally,  to  Mr.  Tredick  and  the  ladies, 
and  tell  them  to  get  ready.  There  isn't  too 
much  time  to  lose,  Dr.  Downs  !  " 

A  figure  glided  from  the  companion-hatch, 
and  passing  swiftly  by  Dr.  Downs  halted  at  the 
captain's  side. 

"  I  have  heard  what  you  said,  Captain  Saltus  " 
—  Miss  Tredick  spoke  slowly,  but  without  any 
tremor  in  her  voice  —  "  and  I  am  not  fright- 
ened, you  see.  I  want  you  to  answer  me  one 
question." 

"  If  I  can,  Miss  Tredick" 

"How  long  will  it  be  before  —  before  the 
end  comes  ? " 

"Well,  miss,  the  wind  has  died  away,  and 
the  sea  is  getting  smoother  every  second.  Mr. 
Bowlsby  thinks  he  will  be  able  to  launch  the 


HER   DYING   WORDS  289 

raft  within  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  Then 
there 's  the  ship-stores  "  — 

"  Yes  !  yes !  — but  how  long?  " 

"  Before  we  leave  the  ship,  miss  ? " 

"  No,  before  the  ship  sinks  !  " 

"  That  I  can't  say.  She  may  keep  afloat  two 
or  three  hours,  if  the  wind  does  n't  freshen." 

"  And  if  the  wind  freshens  ? " 

"  It  would  be  lively  work,  miss." 

"You  are  convinced,  then,  that  we  are  irre- 
vocably lost  ? " 

"Well,"  returned  the  captain,  embarrassed 
by  the  unexpected  composure  of  the  girl,  "I 
would  never  say  that.  There  's  the  raft.  There 
is  generally  a  chance  of  being  picked  up.  Be- 
sides, we  are  always  in  God's  world  !  " 

Miss  Tre'dick  bowed  her  head,  and  let  her 
hand  rest  gently  for  an  instant  on  the  cap- 
tain's coat-sleeve.  In  that  touch  was  a  furtive 
and  pathetic  farewell. 

"Miss  Tredick,"  cried  the  captain,  'as  he 
lifted  his  cap  respectfully,  "  damn  me  if  I  'm 
not  proud  to  sink  with  so  brave  a  lady,  and  any 
man  might  well  be  !  You  're  a  lesson  to  those 
Portuguese,  with  their  leaden  images,  cater- 
wauling up  there  in  the  bows !  " 

"  Now  I  would  like  to  speak  a  moment  with 
Dr.  Downs,"  said  Miss  Tredick  half  hesitat- 
ingly. 


290  HER  DYING  WORDS 

As  the  captain  slowly  walked  forward 
among  the  crew,  there  was  a  dash  of  salt  spray 
on  his  cheek.  The  girl  paused,  and  looked 
after  him  with  a  quick,  indescribable  expression 
of  tenderness  in  her  eyes.  Two  intrepid  souls, 
moving  on  diverse  planes  in  this  lower  sphere, 
had  met  in  one  swift  instant  of  recognition. 

During  the  short  dialogue  between  Captain 
Saltus  and  Miss  Tredick,  Newton  Downs  had 
stood  leaning  against  the  rail,  a  few  feet  dis- 
tant. As  he  stood  there  he  noticed  that  the 
ship  was  gradually  settling.  Until  the  night 
before,  the  idea  of  death  —  of  death  close  to, 
immediate  —  had  never  come  to  him ;  it  had 
been  always  something  vague,  a  thing  possible, 
perhaps  certain,  after  years  and  years.  It  had 
been  a  very  real  thing  to  him  that  night  in  the 
storm,  yet  still  indistinct  so  far  as  touched  him 
personally ;  for  his  thoughts  had  been  less  of 
himself  than  of  Miss  Tredick.  His  thought 
now  was  wholly  of  her.  What  should  be  done  ? 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  go  down  in  the  vessel 
than  to  drift  about  the  Atlantic  for  days  and 
days  on  a  fragile  raft,  and  endure  a  thousand 
deaths?  When  he  contemplated  the  possible 
horror  of  such  brief  reprieve,  his  heart  turned 
cold.  If  it  was  decided  to  take  to  the  raft,  he 
would  pray  that  another  blow,  such  as  the  cap- 
tain seemed  to  predict,  might  speedily  come  W 


HER  DYING  WORDS  291 

end  their  suffering.  The  captain  himself  had 
plainly  resolved  to  sink  with  the  ship.  Would 
not  that  be  the  more  merciful  fate  for  all  of 
them  ?  Had  not  the  thought  occurred  to  Miss 
Tredick,  too  ? 

"Dr.  Downs." 

The  young  man  raised  his  head,  and  saw 
Miss  Tredick  standing  in  front  of  him.  There 
was  a  noticeable  alteration  in  her  manner ;  it 
lacked  something  of  the  self-possession  it  had 
had  while  she  was  addressing  the  captain,  and 
her  lips  were  nearly  colorless.  "  Is  she  losing 
her  splendid  courage  ? "  Downs  asked  himself, 
with  a  pang. 

"There  may  not  be  another  opportunity  for 
me  to  speak  with  you  alone,"  she  said  hurriedly, 
"  here  or  on  the  raft.  How  cruel  it  all  seems ! 
The  world  we  knew  has  suddenly  and  strangely 
come  to  an  end  for  us.  I  could  not  say  to  you 
in  that  world  what  I  wish  to  say  to  you  now. 
You,  too,  did  not  speak  your  thoughts  to  me 
there,  and  the  reason  of  your  silence  was  un- 
worthy of  us  both  "  —  Dr.  Downs  gave  a  little 
start,  and  made  a  motion  to  interrupt  her,  but 
she  stopped  him  with  an  imploring  gesture. 
"  No,  you  must  listen,  for  these  are  my  dying 
words.  You  were  blind  —  oh,  so  blind!  You 
did  not  see  me  as  I  was,  you  did  not  under- 
stand, for  I  think  I  loved  you  from  that  first 


292  HER  DYING  WORDS 

day" — then,  with  a  piteous  quiver  of  the  lip, 
she  added  —  "  and  I  shall  love  you  all  the  rest 
of  my  life !  " 

The  young  man's  first  impulse  was  to  kneel 
at  her  feet,  but  the  tall,  slight  figure  was  now 
drooping  before  him.  He  leaned  forward,  and 
took  the  girl  in  his  arms.  She  rested  her  cheek 
on  his  shoulder,  with  her  eyes  closed.  So  they 
stood  there,  silently,  in  the  red  sunrise. 
Whether  life  lasted  a  minute  or  a  century  was 
all  one  to  those  two  lovers  on  the  sinking  ship. 

The  hammering  of  the  men  at  work  on  the 
raft  had  ceased,  and  the  strange  silence  that 
fell  upon  the  vessel  was  emphasized  rather  than 
broken  by  the  intermittent  lamentations  of  the 
Portuguese  sailors  crowded  into  the  bow  of  the 
ship.  Captain  Saltus,  with  a  curious  expression 
in  his  face,  leaned  against  the  capstan,  watching 
them. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  rush  of  feet,  followed 
by  confused  cries  on  the  forecastle-deck ;  a  man 
had  shouted  something,  the  import  of  which 
did  not  instantly  reach  the  little  group  aft. 

"Where  away?"  cried  the  second  officer, 
leaping  into  the  lower  shrouds. 

"  On  the  starboard  bow,  sir !  The  fog 's  been 
hiding  her." 

"Where's  the  glass?  —  can  you  make  her 
out  ? " 


HER  DYING  WORDS  293 

"I  think  it's  an  Inman  liner,  sir  —  she  is 
signalling  to  us  !  " 

"Thank  God!" 

"  Remember  —  all  the  rest  of  your  life," 
whispered  Dr.  Downs.  "Those  were  your 
dying  words !  " 


ANTOINE'S    DATE-PALM 


NEAR  the  Levee,  and  not  far  from  the  old 
French  cathedral  in  the  Place  d'Armes,  at  New 
Orleans,  stands  a  fine  date-palm,  thirty  feet  in 
height,  spreading  its  broad  leaves  in  the  alien 
air  as  hardily  as  if  its  sinuous  roots  were  suck- 
ing strength  from  their  native  earth. 

Sir  Charles  Lyell,1  in  his  Second  Visit  to  the 
United  States,  mentions  this  exotic  :  "  The  tree 
is  seventy  or  eighty  years  old;  for  Pere  An- 
toine,  a  Roman  Catholic  priest,  who  died  about 
twenty  years  ago,  told  Mr.  Bringier  that  he 
planted  it  himself,  when  he  was  young.  In  his 
will  he  provided  that  they  who  succeeded  to 
this  lot  of  ground  should  forfeit  it  if  they  cut 
down  the  palm." 

Wishing  to  learn  something  of  Pere  An- 
toine's  history,  Sir  Charles  Lyell  made  inquir- 
ies among  the  ancient  Creole  inhabitants  of  the 
faubourg.  That  the  old  priest,  in  his  last  days, 
became  very  much  emaciated,  that  he  walked 
about  the  streets  like  a  mummy,  that  he  grad- 
i  In  1846. 


PERE  ANTOINE'S   DATE-PALM        295 

ually  dried  up,  and  finally  blew  away,  was  the 
meagre  and  unsatisfactory  result  of  the  tourist's 
investigations.  This  is  all  that  is  generally  told 
of  Pere  Antoine. 

In  the  summer  of  1861,  while  New  Orleans 
was  yet  occupied  by  the  Confederate  forces, 
I  met  at  Alexandria,  in  Virginia,  a  lady  from 
Louisiana  —  Miss  Blondeau  by  name  —  who 
gave  me  the  substance  of  the  following  legend 
touching  Pere  Antoine  and  his  wonderful  date- 
palm.  If  it  should  appear  tame  to  the  reader,  it 
will  be  because  I  am  not  habited  in  a  black 
ribbed -silk  dress,  with  a  strip  of  point-lace 
around  my  throat,  like  Miss  Blondeau ;  it  will 
be  because  I  lack  her  eyes  and  lips  and  South- 
ern music  to  tell  it  with. 

When  Pere  Antoine  was  a  very  young  man, 
he  had  a  friend  whom  he  loved  as  he  loved  his 
life,  fimile  Jardin  returned  his  passion,  and 
the  two,  on  account  of  their  friendship,  became 
the  marvel  of  the  city  where  they  dwelt.  One 
was  never  seen  without  the  other ;  for  they 
studied,  walked,  ate,  and  slept  together. 

Thus  began  Miss  Blondeau,  with  the  air  of 
Fiammetta  telling  her  prettiest  story  to  the 
Florentines  in  the  garden  of  Boccaccio. 

Antoine  and  fimile  were  preparing  to  enter 
the  Church;  indeed,  they  had  taken  the  pre- 


296        PERE  ANTOINE'S   DATE-PALM 

liminary  steps,  when  a  circumstance  occurred 
which  changed  the  color  of  their  lives.  A  for- 
eign lady,  from  some  nameless  island  in  the 
Pacific,  had  a  few  months  before  moved  into 
their  neighborhood.  The  lady  died  suddenly, 
leaving  a  girl  of  sixteen  or  seventeen,  entirely 
friendless  and  unprovided  for.  The  young  men 
had  been  kind  to  the  woman  during  her  illness, 
and  at  her  death  —  melting  with  pity  at  the 
forlorn  situation  of  Anglice,  the  daughter  — 
swore  between  themselves  to  love  and  watch 
over  her  as  if  she  were  their  sister. 

Now  Anglice  had  a  wild,  strange  beauty  that 
made  other  women  seem  tame  beside  her ;  and 
in  the  course  of  time  the  young  men  found 
themselves  regarding  their  ward  not  so  much 
like  brothers  as  at  first.  In  brief,  they  found 
themselves  in  love  with  her. 

They  struggled  with  their  hopeless  passion 
month  after  month,  neither  betraying  his  secret 
to  the  other ;  for  the  austere  orders  which  they 
were  about  to  assume  precluded  the  idea  of 
love  and  marriage.  Until  then  they  had  dwelt 
in  the  calm  air  of  religious  meditations,  un- 
moved except  by  that  pious  fervor  which  in 
other  ages  taught  men  to  brave  the  tortures  of 
the  rack  and  to  smile  amid  the  flames.  But 
a  blonde  girl,  with  great  eyes  and  a  voice  like 
the  soft  notes  of  a  vesper  hymn,  had  come  in 


PERE   ANTOINE'S   DATE-PALM         297 

between  them  and  their  ascetic  dreams  of 
heaven.  The  ties  that  had  bound  the  young 
men  together  snapped  silently  one  by  one. 
At  last  each  read  in  the  pale  face  of  the  other 
the  story  of  his  own  despair. 

And  she  ?  If  Anglice  shared  their  trouble, 
her  face  told  no  story.  It  was  like  the  face  of 
a  saint  on  a  cathedral  window.  Once,  however, 
as  she  came  suddenly  upon  the  two  men  and 
overheard  words  that  seemed  to  burn  like  fire 
on  the  lip  of  the  speaker,  her  eyes  grew  lumi- 
nous for  an  instant.  Then  she  passed  on,  her 
face  as  immobile  as  before  in  its  setting  of  wavy 
gold  hair. 

"  Entre  or  et  roux  Dieu  fit  ses  longs  cheveux." 

One  night  fimile  and  Anglice  were  missing. 
They  had  flown  —  but  whither,  nobody  knew, 
and  nobody,  save  Antoine,  cared.  It  was  a 
heavy  blow  to  Antoine  —  for  he  had  himself 
half  resolved  to  confess  his  love  to  Anglice  and 
urge  her  to  fly  with  him. 

A  strip  of  paper  slipped  from  a  volume  on 
Antoine' s  prie-dieu,  and  fluttered  to  his  feet. 

"  Do  not  be  angry"  said  the  bit  of  paper 
piteously  ;  "forgive  us,  for  we  love"  (Pardon- 
nez-nous,  car  nous  nous  aimons.) 

Three  years  went  by  wearily  enough.  An- 
toine had  entered  the  Church,  and  was  already 


298         PERE   ANTOINE'S    DATE-PALM 

looked  upon  as  a  rising  man  ;  but  his  face  was 
pale  and  his  heart  leaden,  for  there  was  no 
sweetness  in  life  for  him. 

Four  years  had  elapsed,  when  a  letter,  covered 
with  outlandish  postmarks,  was  brought  to  the 
young  priest  —  a  letter  from  Anglice.  She 
was  dying  —  would  he  forgive  her  ?  limile, 
the  year  previous,  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the 
fever  that  raged  on  the  island  ;  and  their  child, 
Anglice,  was  likely  to  follow  him.  In  pitiful 
terms  she  begged  Antoine  to  take  charge  of 
the  child  until  she  was  old  enough  to  enter  the 
Convent  of  the  Sacre"-Cceur.  The  epistle  was 
finished  hastily  by  another  hand,  informing 
Antoine  of  Madame  Jardin's  death  ;  it  also 
told  him  that  Anglice  had  been  placed  on  board 
a  vessel  shortly  to  leave  the  island  for  some 
Western  port. 

The  letter,  delayed  by  storm  and  shipwreck, 
was  hardly  read  and  wept  over  when  little 
Anglice  arrived. 

On  beholding  her,  Antoine  uttered  a  cry  of 
joy  and  surprise  —  she  was  so  like  the  woman 
he  had  worshipped. 

The  passion  that  had  been  crowded  down  in 
his  heart  broke  out  and  lavished  its  richness  on 
this  child,  who  was  to  him  not  only  the  An- 
glice of  years  ago,  but  his  friend  fimile  Jardin 
also. 


PERE  ANTOINE'S   DATE-PALM         299 

Anglice  possessed  the  wild,  strange  beauty  of 
her  mother  —  the  bending,  willowy  form,  the 
rich  tint  of  skin,  the  large  tropical  eyes,  that 
had  almost  made  Antoine's  sacred  robes  a 
mockery  to  him. 

For  a  month  or  two  Anglice  was  wildly 
unhappy  in  her  new  home.  She  talked  contin- 
ually of  the  bright  country  where  she  was  born, 
the  fruits  and  flowers  and  blue  skies,  the  tall, 
fan-like  trees,  and  the  streams  that  went  mur- 
muring through  them  to  the  sea.  Antoine 
could  not  pacify  her. 

By  and  by  she  ceased  to  weep,  and  went 
about  the  cottage  in  a  weary,  disconsolate  way 
that  cut  Antoine  to  the  heart.  A  long-tailed 
paroquet,  which  she  had  brought  with  her  in 
the  ship,  walked  solemnly  behind  her  from 
room  to  room,  mutely  pining,  it  seemed,  for 
those  heavy  Orient  airs  that  used  to  ruffle  its 
brilliant  plumage. 

Before  the  year  ended,  he  noticed  that  the 
ruddy  tinge  had  faded  from  her  cheek,  that  her 
eyes  had  grown  languid,  and  her  slight  figure 
more  willowy  than  ever. 

A  physician  was  consulted.  He  could  dis- 
cover nothing  wrong  with  the  child,  except  this 
fading  and  drooping.  He  failed  to  account  for 
that.  It  was  some  vague  disease  of  the  mind, 
he  said,  beyond  his  skill. 


300         PERE   ANTOINE'S   DATE-PALM 

So  Anglice  faded  day  after  day.  She  seldom 
left  the  room  now.  At  last  Antoine  could  not 
shut  out  the  fact  that  the  child  was  passing 
away.  He  had  learned  to  love  her  so ! 

"  Dear  heart,"  he  said  once,  "what  is  't  ails 
thee?" 

"Nothing,  mon  pere,"  for  so  she  called  him. 

The  winter  passed,  the  balmy  spring  had 
come  with  its  magnolia  blooms  and  orange 
blossoms,  and  Anglice  appeared  to  revive.  In 
her  small  bamboo  chair,  on  the  porch,  she 
swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  fragrant  breeze,  with 
a  peculiar  undulating  motion,  like  a  graceful 
tree. 

At  times  something  seemed  to  weigh  upon 
her  mind.  Antoine  observed  it,  and  waited. 
Finally  she  spoke. 

"  Near  our  house,"  said  little  Anglice  — 
"  near  our  house,  on  the  island,  the  palm-trees 
are  waving  under  the  blue  sky.  Oh,  how 
beautiful !  I  seem  to  lie  beneath  them  all  day 
long.  I  am  very,  very  happy.  I  yearned  for 
them  so  much  that  I  grew  ill  — don't  you  think 
it  was  so,  mon  pere  ?  " 

"  Helas,  yes  ! "  exclaimed  Antoine  suddenly. 
"  Let  us  hasten  to  those  pleasant  islands  where 
the  palms  are  waving." 

Anglice  smiled. 

M  I  am  going  there,  mon  pere." 


PERE  ANTOINE'S   DATE-PALM         3°r 

A  week  from  that  evening  the  wax  candles 
burned  at  her  feet  and  forehead,  lighting  her 
on  the  journey. 

All  was  over.  Now  was  Antoine's  heart 
empty.  Death,  like  another  fimile,  had  stolen 
his  new  Anglice.  He  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
lay  the  blighted  flower  away. 

Pere  Antoine  made  a  shallow  grave  in  his 
garden,  and  heaped  the  fresh  brown  mould  over 
the  child. 

In  the  tranquil  spring  evenings,  the  priest 
was  seen  sitting  by  the  mound,  his  finger  closed 
in  the  unread  breviary. 

The  summer  broke  on  that  sunny  land ;  and 
in  the  cool  morning  twilight,  and  after  nightfall, 
Antoine  lingered  by  the  grave.  He  could 
never  be  with  it  enough. 

One  morning  he  observed  a  delicate  stem, 
with  two  curiously  shaped  emerald  leaves, 
springing  up  from  the  centre  of  the  mound. 
At  first  he  merely  noticed  it  casually;  but 
presently  the  plant  grew  so  tall,  and  was  so 
strangely  unlike  anything  he  had  ever  seen 
before,  that  he  examined  it  with  care. 

How  straight  and  graceful  and  exquisite  it 
was  !  In  the  twilight  it  seemed  to  Antoine  as 
if  little  Anglice  were  standing  there  in  the 
garden. 

The  days  stole  by,  and  Antoine  tended  the 


302         PERE  ANTO INK'S   DATE-PALM 

fragile  shoot,  wondering  what  manner  of  blos- 
som it  would  unfold,  white,  or  scarlet,  or 
golden.  One  Sunday,  a  stranger,  with  a 
bronzed,  weather-beaten  face  like  a  sailor's, 
leaned  over  the  garden  rail,  and  said  to  him  — 

"  What  a  fine  young  date-palm  you  have 
there,  sir ! " 

"  Mon  Dieu !  "  cried  Pere  Antoine  starting, 
"  and  is  it  a  palm  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  returned  the  man.  "  I  did  n't 
reckon  the  tree  would  flourish  like  that  in  this 
latitude." 

"  Ah,  mon  Dieu !  "  was  all  the  priest  could 
say  aloud  ;  but  he  murmured  to  himself,  "  Bon 
Dieu,  vous  m'avez  donn£  cela  !  " 

If  Pere  Antoine  loved  the  tree  before,  he 
worshipped  it  now.  He  watered  it,  and  nur- 
tured it,  and  could  have  clasped  it  in  his  arms. 
Here  were  fimile  and  Anglice  and  the  child, 
all  in  one ! 

The  years  glided  away,  and  the  date-palm 
and  the  priest  grew  together  —  only  one  became 
vigorous  and  the  other  feeble.  Pere  Antoine 
had  long  passed  the  meridian  of  life.  The  tree 
was  in  its  youth.  It  no  longer  stood  in  an 
isolated  garden;  for  pretentious  brick  and 
stucco  houses  had  clustered  about  Antoine's 
cottage.  They  looked  down  scowling  on  the 
humble  thatched  roof.  The  city  was  edging 


PERE   ANTOINE'S   DATE-PALM         303 

up,  trying  to  crowd  him  off  his  land.  But  he 
clung  to  it  like  lichen  and  refused  to  sell. 

Speculators  piled  gold  on  his  doorsteps,  and 
he  laughed  at  them.  Sometimes  he  was  hungry, 
and  cold,  and  thinly  clad ;  but  he  laughed  none 
the  less. 

"  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  !  "  said  the  old 
priest's  smile. 

Pere  Antoine  was  very  old  now,  scarcely 
able  to  walk ;  but  he  could  sit  under  the  pliant, 
spreading  leaves  of  his  palm,  loving  it  like  an 
Arab  ;  and  there  he  sat  till  the  grimmest  of 
speculators  came  to  him.  But  even  in  death 
Pere  Antoine  was  faithful  to  his  trust. 

The  owner  of  that  land  loses  it  if  he  injure 
the  date-palm. 

And  there  it  stands  in  the  narrow,  dingy 
street,  a  beautiful,  dreamy  stranger,  an  exquisite 
foreign  lady  whose  grace  is  a  joy  to  the  eye, 
the  incense  of  whose  breath  makes  the  air 
enamored.  May  the  hand  wither  that  touches 
her  ungeritly  ! 

"  Because  it  grew  from  the  heart  of  littU 
Anglice"  said  Miss  Blondeau  tenderly. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

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OFC  1  1  1939 


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OCT  9 


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MAY  10 


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